


Gathering Clouds

by TheSunflowerManual



Series: Roaring Thunder, Hissing Lightning [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ninjas, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Brainwashing, Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Just Add Ninjas, Multi, Rough Sex, Shinobi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-10 23:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17435333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSunflowerManual/pseuds/TheSunflowerManual
Summary: A long and ongoing work with heavy Oriental influences, mostly centred around an Akaviri village deep in the Jerall Mountains. Storyline is largely original, as the span of the narrative is of a greater scope than the events of the Skyrim questline.





	1. Chapter 1

 

            The wolves of Skyrim were fierce predators that hunted both alone and in packs, capable of bringing down even the largest of mammoths. In times of harsh winter, however, when food was scarce, the mighty hunters were not above scavenging and feeding on carrion.

            Hunger had clearly taken its toll on this particular wolf. Her fur was matted and discoloured and her ribs poked out from under her skin. She made a series of wet snaps as she gnawed away at the remains of a Breton, sprawled out in a patch of snow.

            The wind shifted, bringing with it another flurry of snowflakes, and the wolf lifted her snout, nostrils widening. The scent of man, approaching slowly. The scent of meat. The scent of prey.

            Her chops drew back, revealing canines dripping with saliva and chunks of gore, looking for all the world like she was grinning. She abandoned the frozen corpse and started pawing forward slowly, shifting her weight backwards and preparing to pounce.

            The scent was almost upon her. The wolf shook in anticipation, a growl escaping her throat. She heard footsteps; boots crunching on new snow. A figure, huddled in a cloak, came into view.

            The wolf tensed and pounced, jaws opening wide, already savouring the taste of warm flesh. She would feast tonight.

            A flurry of snow; a flash of metal. The wolf feasted on three feet of cold steel.

            The wolf let out a gurgle as the figure pulled the sword from her gullet with a grunt. Crouching, he wiped the blade clean on her fur.

            ‘A lone wolf,’ Arngrimur called, fingering his beard. ‘I’m guessing that’s what your spell was picking up, Valesse. It was starving by the looks of it. Really now, after walking for half a day all we stumbled across was this?’

            A second figure emerged behind him, shivering. A hood hid her face, but Arngrimur could see that her teeth were chattering. A red nimbus swirled around her hands. ‘The blizzard’s letting up,’ the Nord said in a softer tone. ‘We should be able to see our way better now. No need to use up any more magicka until we make it to Finnur’s Barrow.’

            ‘All… all right.’ The nimbus faded, and the Altmer casting it breathed a barely audible sigh of relief.

            Arngrimur’s brow furrowed in worry. ‘Are you absolutely sure that the figurine is here? If you’ve come on this trip for nothing – ‘

            ‘Please, Arn, give it a rest,’ Valesse let out an exasperated puff of air. ‘I’ve been telling you every half-hour. All the archaeological evidence that we recovered for Tharstan points to this barrow. The old man’s never been wrong before. And,’ she said sharply as Arngrimur opened his mouth, ‘Don’t start telling me that I should have stayed home and rested. I’m here right now, there’s nothing you can do about it, and I’m not about to let you traipse halfway across the province on your own.’

            ‘It’s sweet of you to worry, but you know as well as I do that I can handle – ‘

            ‘– yourself, yes, but unfortunately you can’t handle drink, the lack of drink, drinking in moderation, or any combination thereof. I’m not about to let you waltz around Divines-know-where singing “Ragnar the Red” with your trousers off. Again.’

            ‘That was once, just once, and you never let it drop! Besides, you already took all the mead and ale out of my pack…’

            ‘You always manage to find more, and I’m willing to bet you have a flask or bottle hidden away somewhere.’

            ‘Very well, very well!’ Arngrimur’s shoulders slumped in defeat even as he looked at her with kindly blue eyes, a reluctant smile on his face. ‘You win, as you always do. But please, be even more careful than you usually are. After all, I’ve two people to look after now.’

            He patted Valesse on the stomach, where a slight bulge had started to form.

            ‘Of course,’ she said, much more gently. She took his hand, bowed her head and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Another six months and the house is going to be so much more crowded… but first things first.’

            ‘Aye.’ Arngrimur nodded, and continued walking forward until he reached the body the wolf was feeding on. Stooping, he turned it over.

            ‘Hmm… Breton, no armour or weapons. Probably a courier or just some poor lost wretch. Wolf chewed off half his face, but he died much earlier than that. The body’s frozen solid, definitely over a day old. Ah, here, a rip in his tunic. Someone stabbed him through the lungs. Looks like a shortsword. Bandits camped around, maybe?’

            ‘A lot of bandits have the habit of camping around barrows to rob adventurers or excavate them themselves. I hope it’s the latter. That should at least help thin out the draugr.’

            ‘Mhm. At any rate, if you’ve rested up enough, we should keep moving. The snow’s stopped and we’re almost there.’

 

* * *

 

            There were three men guarding the door. The barrow itself, built on top of a sheer mountain, was quite the sight, the stone arches reaching skywards and almost blotting out the sun from where Arngrimur was standing. He admired the building for a while, then threw off his cloak and turned his gaze to the trio, now staring at him intently.

            ‘Good day, you fine gentlemen!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Might I ask what you’re doing standing out here on such a cold winter afternoon?’

            The three men did not reply, and instead started muttering amidst themselves.

            ‘He looks strong. Muscled arms, thick. Probably knows how to swing that sword, too.’

            ‘Iron helm, armour and shield. Banded, I think. Sword is steel, though. Mercenary, maybe.’

            The third man spat. ‘Bah. Some sellsword, can’t even afford better armour. One of these days we’ll get someone who’s carrying more than a dozen septims. Ah well. Let’s get to work, boys!’

            The three bandits – after all, what else could they be? – hefted their weapons and advanced. Arngrimur drew his own sword and bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning. ‘Haven’t had a good fight in ages!’

            He caught the first strike on his shield, then immediately whirled into a crouch, ducking under the second bandit’s mace and slashing low. He took the first bandit’s legs off at the knees and kicked him screaming towards the third bandit, who tripped over and almost impaled himself with his own daggers.

            The second bandit snarled and brought his mace whooshing down at Arngrimur, who rolled off to the right and retaliated with a diagonal cut to the face. The bandit leant to the side at the last moment, though, and the blade severed his earlobe instead. Growling, he feinted to the left, then brought the mace up over his head and swung at Arn’s right shoulder. Arn locked his arm and stopped the blow with his sword, flinching at the resounding clang and the weight of the mace. At the same time, he bent his shield arm out and punched upwards, shattering the bandit’s windpipe with the banded rim of his shield.

            The second bandit dropped the mace and grasped at his throat, choking, then fell twitching to the ground. Arngrimur turned to face the third bandit, who’d gotten up and was staring, his face pale, at his fallen comrades. He took a scroll from his pocket and unfurled it.

             _Damn it_ , Arn thought, and rushed forward. Violet light enveloped the bandit’s arms and Arn gritted his teeth, bracing himself.

            Before he could find out first-hand what spell was sealed in the scroll, however, a guttering ball of flame caught the bandit full in the face. The bandit shrieked and started flailing about as his hair smouldered, his head caught fire, and the skin on his face began to blacken. ‘Oh, be quiet!’ Valesse said, and hurled a bigger fireball at him. The explosion melted the snow for twenty feet around, and the third bandit collapsed, reduced to little more than a charred bundle of sticks.

            ‘Nicely done,’ Arn said. ‘Though I hope there aren’t many more of them around here.’

            ‘Hard luck, then. There’s a large camp just on the other side of this knoll. I’d wager around ten to twenty people were living there. I didn’t see anybody just now, so they must be in the barrow already.’

            ‘They’ll most likely be busy exploring the tomb. Well, at least we won’t have to face them all – ‘

            The carved iron doors to the barrow opened, and a dozen bandits stepped outside, each carrying a sackload of loot. They stared at Arngrimur and Valesse. Then they stared at the bodies. Then they dropped their sacks. Then they drew their weapons.

            ‘– at once.’ Arn said glumly.

            They came in an overwhelming rush, and Arn backpedalled quickly, holding his shield high. The bandits were undisciplined and hungry for blood, however, and the line soon dragged out. The fastest bandit let loose a guttural cry as he hacked at him with a war axe, which Arn shoved to the side with his shield. The bandit’s howl faded as Arn ran his sword through his navel, the piecemeal fur armour giving way to the polished steel. So much for the famed Nord battle cry.

            Valesse stood at a distance, fire streaming from one hand, frost from the other. The bandits at the furthest end of the line stopped running to bat at the flames, while the ones closer to Arngrimur slowed their charge as ice caked their hands and feet. Arn cut them down with ease, his blade an arc of grey and red.

            One of the bandits held up his hand. He was a bare-chested Orc who towered above everyone else, even Valesse. ‘EVERYONE STOP!’ He thundered. ‘SHIELDS UP; RUSH THE WITCH, GO FOR HER HANDS!’

            Arn’s lips tightened as all the surviving bandits swerved from him and started towards Valesse. ‘ _Zun!’_  He cried, just as they were about to reach her. There was a great metallic peal, and eight pairs of shields and swords flew skywards, tumbling down the side of the mountain.

            Valesse shot him a grateful look, and Arn saw the signature turquoise glow of her Oakflesh armour spread over her body. He sighed, relieved. Then a shadow loomed over him and he wondered if it was a little early for such a sentiment.

            The Orc bandit chief was standing before him, clutching an enormous warhammer. The weapon was taller than Arn even if he counted the horns on his helmet. The head was a massive sphere encircled by three black prongs, shot through with dull streaks of crimson.

             _A daedric hammer…?_

            ‘This must be my lucky day,’ the Orc rumbled. ‘I’ve been dying to break this in ever since I found it in those ruins.’

            Arngrimur barely had time to utter an ‘oh’ before the chief swung the hammer at his skull. He ducked backwards as quickly as he could. One of the sphere’s prongs just missed his chin, tearing off half an inch of his beard. ‘I needed a shave anyway.’ Arn mumbled, sparing a glance at the straw-coloured hairs scattered in the snow.

            The Orc wound his arms back and struck again, this time aiming slightly behind Arn’s head.  _Blast_ , Arn thought, and risked a block. The impact jarred every bone in his body, and he felt several tendons pop under the strain. A large dent appeared in his shield.

            The Orc cackled, then brought the hammer down once, twice, thrice, following each blow with another. The bandit chief was strong but also deceptively fast. The shield was soon bent almost completely out of shape.

             _Iron is brittle_ , Arn realised.  _Any more and it’ll shatter_.

            Then he looked up to see the chief stepping backwards, swinging the warhammer back under his right shoulder. He barely had time to notice the change in footwork as the head of the hammer flew forward again, heading straight for his abdomen.

            Arn had no choice. He raised the battered shield once more, bracing his sword and right elbow against it as well. The Orc turned his waist in unison with the strike, adding his own considerable weight to the blow.

            There was a huge clash of metal on metal, and Arn’s shield broke into pieces. The force of the hammer lifted him clean off his feet, sending him sprawling backwards. His vision swam as he felt his eyes and teeth rattle in their sockets.

            ‘Arngrimur!’ Valesse cried as he slid across the snow and came to a stop against a rock, blood seeping from his mouth.

            ‘Imawwigrht,’ Arn said thickly. He spat, rolled to his feet and repeated, ‘I’m all right. Bit my tongue. Keep your guard up.’

            The Orc was grinning from ear to ear as Arn stumbled forwards towards him again. ‘You’ve got fight in you, Nord. I can respect that. In another life you might have made a fine member of my crew.’

            Arn kept his mouth shut and his sword upright as he lunged at the chief, who brought the hammer upwards. Before he could bring it rocketing down, however, Arn lifted his sword upwards horizontally, with his left arm on the flat of his blade, stopping the strike before it could gain any momentum. The Orc blinked, then sneered and pressed downwards.

            The steel sword began to bend, but unlike the iron shield, it did not snap. Even so, Arn began to tremble with strain. The Orc began to chuckle, leaning close enough for him to see the glistening sheen on his face and chest. ‘Did you really think that–’

            Arn lifted his leg and kicked him square in the crotch.

            His boots were tipped with iron. Even Valesse winced.

            The Orc’s eyes widened. He fell to his knees, releasing a high-pitched squeal, half warble, half whimper. The daedric warhammer slid from his hands and embedded itself in the snow.

            Arn let out the breath he was holding and waited for his hands to stop shaking. Then he picked up his sword and put the Orc out of his misery, decapitating the bandit chief with a backhand slash. The chief's muscles were tense with pain, spraying arterial blood into Arn's face as the headless torso toppled over.

            ‘Arn, thank the gods. Are you hurt at–’

            Valesse’s voice was suddenly cut off, replaced by grunts and dull thuds. Alarmed, Arn turned towards her direction.

            Five corpses lay on the ground, three still burning, two riddled with spikes of ice. The remaining men had drawn daggers, grabbed Valesse by the wrists, and were stabbing her everywhere they could. Her Oakflesh was weakening by the second, and they had already managed to wound her. Blood poured from a deep gash on her cheek.

            Seeing Valesse bleeding brought Arngrimur’s own blood to a roiling boil. The Thu’um built once more in his belly, and three Words tore from his lips.

            ‘ _FUS RO DAH!’_  he roared, the air rippling before him. The three bandits scattered like sand in the wind, leaving only a trail of ashes in their wake.

            ‘Valesse,’ he cried, racing towards her. ‘Please, please for the love of Talos – ‘

            ‘I’m fine, Arn. Don’t worry, they only managed to get one hit in, and the Oakflesh stopped most of it.’

            Arn exhaled and the lines faded from his face as he held her in his arms. ‘Thank all the gods above and below. If they’d stabbed deeper, or any faster… You and the baby…’

            ‘They did not, and we’re both safe and sound,’ Valesse said, snuggling closer to her husband. ‘So let’s not dwell on that overmuch, hmm?’

            The pair stayed in each other’s embrace for a while, until the noonday sun rose above the barrow.

            Arn’s smile turned into a scowl as he released her. ‘Now. Did you not hear me at all when I said “I'm all right, keep your guard up”? You didn’t think one lousy bandit with a slightly larger hammer was going to get the better of me, did you?’

            ‘How am I supposed to answer that without offending you?’ Valesse said, bemused.

            ‘Bah. We might as well check if the bandits looted anything of importance from the barrow. At least we might come out of this with slightly more gold.’ Arn grumbled, and started looking through the contents of the nearest sack that the bandits dropped.

            Valesse nodded, then turned around to search another sack. ‘Let’s see here… necklaces set with sapphires and emeralds, a few cloudy garnets, rings of gold and silver, some bottles of ancient Nord mead, the kind that keeps for over thousands of years…’

            She paused as she realised what she just said.

            Mead.

            The sharp tips of her ears quivered, and she heard a most curious sound. A small, muffled pop, and the faint hiss of escaping gas.

            Her head swivelled towards where Arn was sitting. He had his back to her.

            She marched over to him, grabbed him by his shoulder, and turned him around.

            No less than seven empty bottles rolled clinking out of his lap.

            Valesse was short for an Altmer, and Arngrimur was tall for a Nord. As a result, she stood at about half a head higher than him. She drew herself to her full height now and bore over him, her green eyes ablaze.

            ‘My dear husband,’ she began. ‘How? How? I turn my back for less than a minute and you’ve already drunk seven bottles of millennia-old mead? Is it even humanly possible to survive drinking any more than two in an hour?’

            ‘Oh, Valesshe,’ Arn hiccupped with an imbecilic grin on his face, which was now completely scarlet. ‘Lhook – hlook what I fhound. Thish wee toy, in an olhd tohmb of ahll plashes...’ He held up a small figurine of a man in full Akaviri samurai armour, carved out of clay.

            Valesse gasped. ‘Arn, that’s the figurine we were looking for! The bandits must have carried it out of the barrow. It looks fragile. Give it here, I’ll ward it with some fortification spells so it won’t break while we take it to Tharstan.’

            Arn shook his head, capering and dancing out of her reach. ‘Gotta catch me firsht.’

            ‘Sweet Mara, Arn, not now!’

            ‘OOHHH THERE ONCE WAS A HERO NAMED RAGNAR THE RED/WHO CAME RIDING TO–’

            ‘IF-I-HAVE-TO-HEAR-THAT-INSIPID-SONG-ONE-MORE-BLOODY-TIME–’

            Valesse chased Arn twice around the mountain, the drunken warrior bellowing scraps of verse at the top of his lungs – which, even for a master of the Thu’um, was impressive indeed. She covered her ears and hoped that the idiot wouldn’t set off an avalanche.

            Just as she was about to catch up to him and probably hamstring him for his trouble, Arn tripped on the bandit chief’s head.

            ‘No!’ Valesse yelled. There was a loud crack and the figurine split in two.

            Arn looked at the broken pieces, then tilted his head back to stare at her. ‘Whoopsh,’ he mumbled.

            ‘Arn, you fool of a Nord!’ she cried. ‘This is why you never manage to get better gear! And now we’ll have to find some way to get you a new shield as well! This is unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Tharstan will most probably–’

            A vein between her brows swelled and began to pulse. ‘Arngrimur…?’

            Arn let out a contented snore as he smacked his lips and rolled over to his side.

            Valesse considered setting him on fire, freezing him in a ball of ice and snow and rolling him all the way back home, or just throwing him off the mountain.

            In the end, she settled for taking off his helmet, draping a cloak over him and watching him sleep as she sat down beside him, waiting, a tender smile growing on her lips.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

            ‘I said I was sorry.’

            ‘You’d better damn well be.’

            ‘Well, I am!’

            Valesse’s breath huffed out from under her hood in a burst of white vapour. ‘At least Tharstan, amiable old man that he is, forgave us for breaking the figurine.’ She said, smiling at the thought of the historian’s childlike joy when he received the figurine.

             _‘My dear, my dear, this is an incredible find! Proof that the Akaviri could very well have had a presence in Tamriel long before the Invasion of High Rock. I could write volumes on this, volumes! A pity it’s broken, though. Maybe a good potter…’_

            ‘But  _you_ , Arn,’ Valesse snarled as she turned towards Arngrimur. ‘If I see you touch another bottle in the next month-'

            She gave a visible start as the baby kicked. The couple had journeyed from Skyrim to Solstheim and back to deliver the figurine. With the bad weather, the delays in the Northern Maiden’s departure, the choppy waters of the Sea of Ghosts and the distance between the island and the mainland, it had taken them almost three months. Valesse’s belly had grown out and would almost certainly have torn her robes, had she not gotten to work with a pair of shears and some sewing thread.

            ‘He’s an active one,’ Arn chuckled. ‘Just like his old man. I can tell.’ He bent down and put his ear to her abdomen, listening intently.

            ‘Don’t try to squirrel out of this,’ Valesse said, though her voice was already beginning to soften. She put a hand behind his hair and pressed him gently against her stomach. ‘I’m not done yelling at you yet.’

            Gjalund poked his head into the passengers’ quarters. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he called. ‘But we’ve docked at Windhelm.’

            ‘Ah,’ Arngrimur said, straightening. ‘We’ll be off then. Thanks for the ride home, Gjalund. You’re a fine captain.’

            ‘Let me help with your bags, ma’am.’ Gjalund said, reaching out to Valesse as Arn took her arm and helped her down the ramp.

            ‘Many thanks, captain,’ Valesse said, kissing him on the brow. ‘You’ve been wonderful.’

            Gjalund’s face went slightly pink as he bent and placed Valesse’s pack on the ground next to Arn’s. Then he waved them farewell as he boarded the Northern Maiden once more, loading it with provisions and preparing for the journey back to Solstheim.

            The walk to Windhelm’s gates was slow, with Valesse stopping to rest every few steps, Arn at her side, supporting her as best he could.

            ‘You know, speaking of the baby,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have you thought of names yet?’

            ‘Me? You don’t intend to have a say in the naming of your child?’

            Arn laughed. ‘You’ve always been the clever one. I’m sure you can think of much better names than me. At least names that’ll mean something.’

            Valesse thought of it a while. ‘I believe I have, yes.’

            There was silence for a while.

            ‘I don’t intend to tell you yet, however.’ Valesse said playfully. ‘You’ll just have to wait until he takes his first breath.’

            ‘I hate waiting.’ Arn said sullenly.

            ‘Call it punishment for breaking the figurine.’

            ‘Argh.’

            They arrived outside the city gates, only then noticing that something was amiss.

            ‘Arn…’ Valesse said quietly, her fingers twitching, preparing to cast spells.

            ‘I know,’ Arn said, his voice low, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Where are the guards?’

            The couple paused for a while, eyes scanning the area while listening for signs of trouble. Nothing.

            ‘We could leave if we – ‘

            ‘Absolutely not,’ Arn said. ‘We need supplies and provisions. I need a new shield and you’re in no fit shape to make a trip to the other holds from here without a steady supply of food, be it on foot or in a carriage.’

            Valesse frowned and thought for a moment. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But we must proceed with caution.’

            Arn nodded, and set his hand on the bronzed metal of the gates. It gave, just a little.

            ‘Not locked, then,’ he said, and grunted as he placed all his weight on one gate and pushed. It swung open with a creak.

            There were a few landmarks by which one could recognise Windhelm. The inn Candlehearth Hall, for example. The blacksmith’s quarters and the large marketplace just behind it, for others. Then, of course, there was the signpost that read WINDHELM, a foolproof signature of the city.

            What was not part of the everyday picture, however, was the corpse wrapped in Thalmor robes, swinging by his neck from the signpost. The Altmer's bowels had loosened as he died, and a foul stench wafted from the brown filth running down his legs.

            Arn’s eyes widened, and he looked around, noticing the hastily erected wooden structures dotted around the city. Gallows. Limp figures hung from them like dried fruit.  _A lynch mob_. His blood ran cold.

            Valesse was staring at the body they’d just found, her face pale. Arn laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

            ‘Tanmereluar,’ she whispered. ‘To think he’d end up like this…’

            ‘Friend of yours?’ Arn asked quietly.

            She laughed bitterly. ‘Not quite. He was my commanding officer before I deserted. I swear to Stendarr I’ve never known anyone quite as bigoted as he was. But still… it’s a jarring sight, nonetheless.’

            Arn squeezed her shoulder. ‘If you need a moment – ‘

            ‘Thank you, Arn, but I’m fine now,’ Valesse said, pulling her hood over her black tresses and pointed ears. ‘I hope the inn is still open. They seem to have turned the markets into a makeshift court. We should get our supplies and leave, as soon as we can.’

            Even from the outside, one could see that Candlehearth Hall was humming with activity. Light emanated from the windows, and Arn could hear the murmur of voices.

            The pair each took a deep breath and went inside, Valesse stooping to make herself seem shorter. Someone had moved all the tables to the back, and men were milling about the chairs, clutching tankards and farming implements, talking loudly.

            ‘So I’m telling you,’ a brute of a Nord was saying, a bloodied butcher’s cleaver on his lap. ‘We should round up them guards we caught next and hang ‘em too. Damned Thalmor and their dogs. Are we supposed to piss all over Talos now just because some fat milk-drinker says so?’ He roared, and everyone else in the inn erupted into shouts of rage.

            ‘I want to tickle them first,’ a thinner man next to him giggled. ‘The elves danced pretty, now I want to see how them Imperials do...’

            Even under the hood Arn could see Valesse’s lips whiten.

            ‘Don’t worry, Skeeverface, you’ll get your sport,’ someone in the crowd laughed. ‘The Legion must have been exhausted from the war, we’ve got almost half of them alive.’

            Any hopes that Arn had harboured of dealing with the innkeeper and slipping out unnoticed were dashed as the thickset Nord who was giving the speech turned and pointed at him.

            ‘So who’s this ‘un?’

            Arn cursed inwardly, then lifted his head and said, ‘Just two travellers passing through. We were hoping to pick up some supplies from the innkeep. May we speak to her? We’ll be on our way in no time.’

            ‘Odd to meet a brother Nord who’s not the least bit excited about the cause. Imperial dogs and Thalmor bitches...’ The man peered at him, then waved at the frightened woman standing at the counter. ‘Place’s ours now. Elda’s not the innkeep no more. If you want supplies, you’ll deal with me.’

            ‘Fine then.’ Arn said grudgingly, reaching for his purse, eager to get it done. ‘I’ll need at least two full sacks of dried meats, a skin of water…’

            ‘Wait.’ A stout man holding a pitchfork stood suddenly. ‘I’ve seen this one before.’

            Arn closed his eyes for a maddening heartbeat, then opened them again and faced him. ‘And where might that be, sir?’

            The man squinted at him for a moment. Then he growled, ‘I knew it. You’re that Arngrimur fellow, served in the Legion. They raised you up real high, too. Legate, was it?’

            ‘ _Former_  Legate,’ Arn said. ‘I’m no longer on active duty.’ Thinking quickly, he added, ‘Deserted when I couldn’t stand having to suck another drop from dry elf teats.’ A few people in the crowd murmured in approval.

            ‘Funny you’re saying that,’ a voice called. ‘When we find you travelling with an elf yourself.’

            Arn whirled. Skeeverface had snuck behind Valesse and taken her hood off. She must not have noticed until it was too late, stooping low as she was. The entire inn stared at her green, slanted eyes and tapered ears.

            Every man in Candlehearth Hall began hissing, booing and shouting, throwing tankards and their contents at her.

            ‘That’s how it is, then, isn’t it? The chinless Emperor sending his loyal dog to show us all how we ought to behave and lap at the Thalmor’s boots?’ The speech-giver yelled, shaking his fist.

            ‘She tell you to sit and shake, boy?’ Skeeverface jeered. ‘Better yet, to bend over and pucker up?’

            The stout man seemed the angriest out of the crowd. ‘And you call yourself a Nord? Why not just shave your ears to a point? It’d suit you better than your sorry excuse of a beard!’

            He rushed forward, hefting his pitchfork. The mob cheered.

            ‘No!’ Valesse cried, and placed herself between Arn and the enraged peasant.

            One sharp tip of the pitchfork drove into her shoulder. The momentum carried her backwards and pinned her to the wall.

            Arngrimur snapped.

            He howled like a feral sabrecat and charged, bare-handed, into the mob, the sword at his side forgotten. The whole of Whiterun shook under the force of his Voice, and most of the men in the mob let out shrieks of pain as blood spurted from their ears. He dug his fist into Skeeverface’s eye, then grabbed the speechmaker by his throat and flung him bodily into the crowd. He upended a table, sending utensils tinkling to the floor, then raised it over his head and smashed it into the nearest cluster of men. The stout peasant pulled the pitchfork from Valesse’s shoulder and she groaned as blood began to pour from the wound. Arn turned to stare at the man so quickly his neck cracked. He caught the pitchfork by the haft as the peasant swung, broke it in two on one knee, buried both prongs in his gut, picked up an actual fork and stabbed him in the side of the neck, then twisted the fork and pulled it out, doubling the size of the gash and showering both of them in blood.

            This rather unorthodox display soon convinced the rest of the mob to quickly vacate the premises.

            ‘Arn,’ Valesse said hoarsely, ‘I’m sorry…’

            ‘Don’t try to talk. Bite down on this,’ he said, handing her a ragged cloth from the counter. ‘I’m going to wash your wound with mead.’

            Valesse whimpered as the Arn rinsed her shoulder with the strong alcohol. ‘There. Your healing spells should go much simpler without worrying about infection.’

            All was quiet for a brief minute, save for the yellow hum of Valesse’s Restoration magic.

            ‘I know what you’re going to say – ‘

            ‘That may be so, but I’m still going to – ‘

            ‘I would have done it anyway.’ Valesse said defiantly.

            ‘What about the baby?’ Arn asked, raising his voice.

            ‘I…’ Valesse looked down. For once she had no answer.

            ‘Damn it,’ Arn scowled for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I could never stay angry at you. But by Shor, I hope the child is alright.’

            A tear rolled down Valesse’s cheek as she cradled her swollen belly. Then she felt a hearty kick.

            She met Arn’s gaze, and they both began to laugh reluctantly.

* * *

 

 

            The innkeep Elda was so terrified of the madman who took on thirty strong Nords all at once she just started nodding to everything he said.

            ‘As I said, two full sacks of assorted dried meats…’

            She nodded, and scurried off into the storeroom.

            ‘…one skin of water…’

            She nodded again, and scurried off into the storeroom.

            ‘…some fresh fruit for my wife if you have it…’

            She nodded most vigorously, and scurried off into the storeroom.

            ‘…all the mead in your stock... ah-’

            Valesse slapped him in the back of the head, then placed a coin purse on the counter and bowed to Elda in Altmer custom. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

            ‘We’d best hurry,’ Arn said, rubbing his skull. ‘The mob is sure to be back with more pitchforks or even weapons they looted from the guards, and you can be sure that they’ll have plenty of rope set aside for us.’

            He made a slight detour when they exited Candlehearth Hall and went to the blacksmith’s, picking up a shield styled in the fashion of the Imperial Legion. Arn looked up to find that the blacksmith had been hanged as well. _Poor bastard._

            Luckily, the gates were still unmanned when they reached them. The sun was setting by then, and the couple slipped out easily enough.

            ‘Eat something,’ Arn urged. ‘Keep up your strength. Restoration takes a lot out of you, I know.’

            Valesse did not argue, which worried him even more. ‘Once we’ve put five leagues between us and the city, we’ll set up camp and rest. Get your strength back. We should reach Whiterun in three weeks or less.’

            ‘And… and then?’ Valesse panted, the strain in her voice tugging at Arn’s heartstrings.

            ‘Then I’m taking you straight to the Temple of Kynareth, where I’m going to tie you down to a bed and force all of the priests, priestesses and acolytes to look after everything you need, at swordpoint if need be.’

            Despite herself, Valesse snickered.

            ‘There’s that haughty grin that I love,’ Arn grinned himself. ‘Come on then, have another tomato.’

            Night fell, but the twin moons and the aurorae lit their way as well as any torch. Arn and Valesse made the occasional wisecrack, but for the most part trudged on in peaceful silence.

            Not all of Skyrim shared such peace, however. At the summit of an unmarked mountain, on an unnamed tomb buried deep under earth and sleet, a single speck of snow began to shiver. The shaking spread slowly, the radius and intensity of the tremor increasing until all nearby animals fled in terror and the ground on the peak became a quivering mass that seemed almost liquid.

            From the depths of the snow, five golden blurs shot into the air, leaving a trace of steam as the ice evaporated from their surface. The objects came to a halt seventy feet above the peak, revealing themselves to be elaborate masks of neither wood nor metal.

            The masks shone with power, and beneath them, stray particles of dust and snow gathered, forming spindly limbs, lifeless grey skin, ragged robes of faded purple and red, and staves humming with magic.

            The figures were joined by five more masks. Then ten. Then twenty. Then forty and sixty…

            The entire mountain was stripped of snow as the masks whirled in a vortex of energy and matter, which eventually coalesced into the same skeletal beings that the first five masks brought into existence.

            One hundred Dovah-Sonaak descended onto the stone now laid bare on the summit. Hovering into a large circle, they gathered around the centre of the tomb, watching quietly as the first five joined bony hands. Eerie blue light began to swirl around them, forming shapes of countless men and women.

            They did not have to wait long. Two apparitions emerged, shining brighter than the rest. The five waved their hands and banished the rest as the ghostly images sharpened and gained colour.

            The first was an elven woman, her angled face serene and ageless, raven locks falling over her forehead. A quilt of furs was wrapped around her body, with an extra blanket placed around the swell of her lower abdomen.

            The second was a man with piercing blue eyes and straw hair, a horned helm of iron over his head, and a ragged beard covering his jaw. He was sitting on a rock, scrubbing at a gleaming length of steel with a dirty rag. A kite shield hung over his back, and his muscled arms were bare.

            The Sonaak rose once more, the slits of their masks glowing crimson.

            ‘Dovahkiin.’ They chanted. ‘Dovahkiin.’

          

* * *

 

            Arngrimur’s neck prickled. He stopped wiping his sword and leapt to his feet instinctively, reaching for his new shield.

            The sudden rustle woke Valesse. ‘Is something wrong?’

            ‘I felt eyes on me.’ He said, unnerved.

            After a few minutes of looking around the camp, he slung the shield once more over his back. ‘Nothing after all,’ he chuckled. ‘I must be getting paranoid.’

            ‘If I find any empty bottles lying around in the morning, I’m going to… I’m going to…’ Valesse yawned, then closed her eyes again.

            Arn leant over her and brushed his lips lightly against her cheek. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he murmured. ‘It was probably just a stray fox.’

            Yet his sword remained in his hand as he sat back on the rock, glaring out at the flickering shadows beyond their fire.

             _Just my imagination…?_

            He cleaned the last specks of dirt from the blade and kept watch late into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

 

            The two never made it to Whiterun.

            They caught up to them on the second day, just on the banks of the White River’s first curve.

            Arngrimur drew his sword, his shield already in his hands. Valesse hooked her fingers inwards, orbs of pure magicka crackling in her palms.

            ‘Did you really think we wouldn’t notice you? You’ve been following us for over a day now. What do you want?’ she demanded.

            The lone figure standing before them shuddered and pointed, hissing, ‘ _Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin dilon_ …’

            ‘A Dragon Priest,’ Arn growled. ‘I thought they were all dead.’

            ‘Evidently not,’ Valesse said, the glow from her magic giving her face a sinister hue. ‘Let’s rectify that at once.’

            ‘Even a single Dragon Priest can be deadly,’ Arn warned. ‘I should know. Conserve your magicka, you’ll need it. I’ll go for the limbs, keep him busy. Stay back and cover me. Aim for the mask if you can.’

             _Arn’s not refusing my help?_  Valesse’s eyes narrowed. _Just how powerful are these Dragon Priests?_

            Just as they were about to execute their plan, two more Priests appeared, dropping down to the grassy earth from high in the afternoon sky, making nothing more than a soft  _whump_.

            ‘Three of them,’ Arn muttered, a bead of sweat rolling down his face. ‘Well, I’ve survived worse.’

            Another three descended from the clouds.

            ‘Couldn’t... resist... could you?’ Valesse said through clenched teeth, even as she turned slowly, placing her back against his.

            Instead of replying, Arn drew in a deep breath, his legs bent slightly apart and planted firmly against the ground.

             _He’s starting the battle with a Shout,_  Valesse realised.  _He’s deadly serious now._

            ‘ _TIID,_ ’ he yelled. ‘ _KLO UL!_ ’

            Arn’s form twisted unnaturally as he moved, outpacing even his own shadow. He raised his blade, and it was as if he gripped twenty swords instead of one. A silver blur was all Valesse saw as he struck everywhere at once.

            The Dragon Priests let out a collective shriek as hundreds of slashes rent their bodies, tearing their robes to fluttering rags and shattering some of the golden scales mounted on their shoulders and chests. A loud, continuous ringing filled the air.

            For a moment, Valesse was sure that nothing could have survived such an onslaught. Then she noticed how orange sparks flew off the masks whenever Arn struck at their heads, and dread crept up her throat.

            All too soon, the Shout wore off and Arn reappeared at her side, dishevelled and breathing hard. ‘Damn them all. I don’t recall ever coming across masks like that before – all my blows just glanced off.’

            Valesse thrust her hands to either side, peppering the surrounding area with bolts of amber light, keeping the enemy from regaining their bearings. The Priests fell back, disoriented.

            ‘How did you defeat them before? Quickly now!’

            ‘Destroying the mask usually works,’ Arn said, his brow furrowed. ‘There were the ones with masks of ebony and corundum, though. I had to spend entire days cutting them to pieces so fine they scattered in the wind.’

             _Disintegration, then_. She thought to herself, running through different strategies in her head.  _I should’ve practiced more Shock magic._

            Before she could put any of her plans in action, however, the Dragon Priest directly in front of her recovered and raised its index finger. The thin digit vibrated forcefully and a spear of ice spat from the tip.

            As a High Elf, Valesse was naturally lithe and graceful, but the child in her belly slowed her down. She scrambled backwards as quickly as she could and would still have been impaled, had Arn not blocked the projectile with his shield.

            ‘Any thoughts?’ He asked grimly, eyes fixed on their spectral opponents.

            ‘Some,’ she replied. ‘But whatever I do next, I’m going to need time.’

            ‘You have as much of it as I have breath in my body.’

            And with that, Arn charged forward once more, the steel in his hand gleaming. He bashed one Priest upside the head with his shield, then spun and jabbed another in the seemingly empty gap between the mask and the neck. The only response was a dry chuckle. Arn had already moved on, though. He darted to and fro among the six, always keeping close to at least one, distracting them and at the same time keeping them from using magic carelessly.

            Valesse closed her eyes and strove to clear her mind of all stray thoughts. She moved her arms in a slow circle, focusing on gathering as much latent magicka from Aetherius as possible. The power converged around her hands, becoming tendrils of white-hot flame.

            Arn felt the heat on his back, and knew then what she meant to do. He renewed his assault with increased vigour, kicking and screaming insults, drawing as much attention to himself as he could.

            The Priests soon grew tired of the loud Nord and began bombarding him with spells, disregarding each other’s safety. Scores of lightning bolts slammed into his shield, forcing him back and away from Valesse.

            ‘Are you quite done yet?’ he shouted.

            Valesse raised both hands above her head, her entire body now wreathed in fire. ‘Ready,’ she cried. ‘Take cover!’

            ‘ _Wuld!_ ’ Arn hissed, flying forward and disappearing into the White as the air around him snapped like a whip.

            The Priests turned to face her just as she slapped her burning hands onto the ground. The Destruction spell known colloquially as Fire Storm required a level of mastery few possessed, and was said to rival dragonflame itself. Valesse cast it now. An explosion of heat and light burst from the ground, with her as the epicentre of the whirling inferno. Arn felt the blast even from the bottom of the river. He waited for the spots to fade from his eyes, then rose from the water.

            Valesse sat wearily on a patch of barren, smoking earth, the ground around her completely blackened for fifty feet around. Six masks, cracked and steaming, lay on the ground. Not even ashes were left of the owners.

            ‘You,’ Arn said as he walked towards her. ‘Are the most amazing, powerful, beautiful, amazingly powerful and beautiful woman I have ever had the fortune to – ‘

            ‘Oh, be quiet, you.’ Valesse stood up, her cheeks flushed, and planted a kiss full on his lips. ‘That just took every drop out of me and I’ll need to recover as much magicka as I can, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cause any more fluctuations in my heart rate.’

            They sat beside each other for a while, waiting for the exhaustion to leave their limbs. Arn was the first back on his feet. He crouched and examined the masks.

            ‘There must be more of them. These masks look like part of a larger set, and these six seemed rather poorly prepared for a fight. They must have been scouts.’

            ‘ _Poorly_  prepared? Please tell me you’re jesting.’

            ‘Be thankful none of the six were properly geared with battle robes and dragon staves,’ he said darkly. ‘If the Priests have returned, this bodes ill. What could they be after?’

            ‘Probably not me,’ Valesse shrugged. ‘I’ve never had dealings with creatures like that before.’

            ‘They're most likely after  _my_  head, then,’ Arn declared. He turned and opened his mouth, but before he could utter a single word, Valesse spoke first.

            ‘No.’

            ‘You haven’t even heard me yet.’

            ‘Still a no.’

            ‘But–’

            ‘NO.’

            ‘If you’ll just–’

            ‘I won’t let you go off on your own to face those…  _things._ ’ She said furiously.

            ‘I wasn’t about to.’

            Valesse blinked. ‘What?’

            ‘As much as I hate to admit it, we stand a much better chance when we’re together,’ Arn took his helmet off and shook it dry. ‘No, I’m worried about the baby. We can forget facing the Priests until he’s born, it’s too risky. For both of you.’

             _He’s right for once_ , Valesse thought to herself, struggling to her feet against the weight of her child.  _Another week or two and I’ll be unable to fight at all._

            ‘Well then, what do you suggest?’ she asked. ‘Continue on to Whiterun as we originally planned?’

            ‘No, the city’s too open. The guards won’t be able to do anything to stop them from dropping in from thin air, and imagine how vulnerable you’d be, lying down on a bed in the Temple. No… we need a more secure place to hide, somewhere hard to find, with both conventional and magical protection, a competent team of healers, and a veritable army housed within.’

            ‘Very specific. This is unlike you,’ Valesse commented. ‘I take it you’ve just the place in mind, then?’

            ‘That I do, aye,’ Arn nodded. ‘We’ll have to hurry, though. The place I speak of lies a great distance away, on the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, in the ranges of the Jerall Mountains far to the northeast of Bruma.’

            ‘I’ve heard of those areas,’ Valesse frowned. ‘Aren’t they populated with murderous warlords, constantly vying for scraps of territory?’

            ‘Indeed they are,’ Arn said, a look of surprise on his face. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be so shocked that you know of them, but still…’

            ‘Therin of Mournhold once made mention of “fierce-eyed barbarians roaming across the peaks, occasionally pushing downwards towards Cyrodiil, burning and pillaging” in his work  _Unexplored Heights and Depths of Tamriel_. The book was altogether unimpressive, to be honest.’

            ‘You’re not seriously telling me you remembered this exact sentence from some dusty old tome that you found “altogether unimpressive”?’ He demanded.

            ‘Never mind that,’ she said, waving her hand impatiently. ‘More importantly, why would you think that we’d be safe hiding there? Even if we managed to clamber up the rocky, icy slopes, if all we have to look forward to are feuding clans of bandits…’

            ‘Ah, but you see,’ Arn raised a finger. ‘Those mountain ranges are home to more than just warlords. On the sheer, flat top of Mount Furiya lies the Village under the Shadow of the Moons, or the Tsukikage no Sato in the Eastern Akaviri tongue.’

            Valesse made a face. ‘What a mouthful. I never knew you spoke Akaviri. Or that there were different variations of the language.’

            ‘I picked up a few smatterings, though I am by no means fluent. Returning to the topic at hand,’ Arn continued. ‘Don’t let the word “village” fool you. Tsukikage is just as large as the hold capitals of Skyrim. And unlike the capitals, it’s protected with high walls, a naturally defensible position, and layers upon layers of enchantments.’

            ‘It sounds almost too good to be true.’ Valesse murmured.

            ‘Well, the village is one thing, the people inside are another. They’re quite suspicious of outsiders.’ A lopsided grin spread over Arn’s face. ‘Fortunately, one of them owes me a favour.’

            ‘Does everyone from half of Tamriel owe you favours of some form or the other? And who are these “people” you’re going on about?’

            Arn’s grin widened. ‘Let’s get a move on, I’ll tell you on the way.’ He pulled a map from his pack, tapping at several places. ‘First stop is here, then here, where the White meets the Darkwater. Hopefully we can get there in a week, then we’ll follow the river to Ivarstead…’

* * *

             The journey was long and arduous, but Valesse took no notice, so absorbed she was in learning of the village. Arn told her all he knew over the course of the weeks.

            ‘To understand the origins of Tsukikage, we must first go back almost two thousand years ago, to the Akaviri Invasion of Tamriel, around the late 27th and early 28th centuries of the First Era. If you’ll remember, after a decade of war, Reman Cyrodiil defeated them at long last.’

            Valesse smiled to herself. Between the drinking and the swashbuckling, she’d forgotten that Arngrimur was almost as learned as she was, more so when it came to military history.

            ‘I do remember. The Akaviri troops surrendered, and to bolster his own forces, Reman offered them amnesty in exchange for their services. Thus the Akaviri samurai and Dragonguard were integrated into the Imperial Legion, bringing with them their martial prowess and weaponry, as well as forming the Emperor’s own elite fighting force, the Blades.’

            ‘Very good,’ Arn said. ‘But surely an empire that managed to conquer a continent as large as Akavir would have had more diversity in their ranks than just their versions of knights and bodyguards?’

            ‘That’s rhetorical, I assume.’

            ‘Nothing gets past you as usual,’ Arn muttered. ‘The invaders had a second caste of warriors – and I say “warriors” in the loosest sense of the word – that lurked unseen and unheard behind the Akaviri main forces. They were known as shinobi.’

            ‘Sheen-o-bee?’ Valesse tried to pronounce the word. ‘I’ve never heard the word before.’

            ‘The closest translation would mean “hidden ones” or “walker of shadows”. One could say that they were the converse of the samurai.’

            ‘Indeed? How so?’

            ‘The samurai acted on the forefront of the battlefield, often clashing with enemy forces one-on-one, sometimes even settling entire battles with a single duel. They placed the utmost emphasis on honour and chivalry, which is why they’ve oft been compared with Tamrielic knights.

            ‘Any commander worth his station should know that you can’t win a war by being polite, and that’s where the shinobi come in. They were spies, saboteurs, and assassins, focusing on avoiding large-scale conflicts and eliminating key targets to sow confusion and despair among the enemy ranks. They were half the reason the war dragged on for over ten years.

            ‘The Akaviri – more specifically, the Tsaesci leaders of the armies – were proud by nature, and considered such tactics dishonourable and beneath them, so they kindly delegated the job to the “lesser race” of the Po’ Tun, or the Ka Po’ Tun as they are known nowadays.’

            ‘ _Mysterious Akavir_  describes them as Tiger-Cat-People, and that they were mortal enemies of the Tsaesci. Given the extremely informal and deliberately sensational tone of the book, however, I took it with a pinch of... no, a few bowlfuls of salt. If everything in the book is to be believed - well, you've read the thing.’ Valesse snorted.

            ‘Hmm. It’s true that the Po’ Tun bear a striking resemblance to the Khajiit, except that their fur was varying shades of black, grey and white. As to being enemies of the Tsaesci, I cannot say what it’s like in Akavir now, but in the First Era they did cooperate, if not freely. As I said, though, they were considered an inferior people to the Tsaesci.

            ‘Over the course of the war, the Po’ Tun never numbered over a thousand, but each one of the shinobi was trained from birth in the arts of stealth, magic and combat. I’ve seen their practice regimens myself. They fight like darkness itself, seemingly intangible at times… though if possible they wouldn’t have fought at all.

            ‘As you can imagine, these agents of shadow terrified the men of Reman’s army. They would go to sleep one night, only to find their captain dead in the morning. Strange black blurs would flit across their vision, and moments later they would find their rations burning.’ Arn gathered his thoughts for a while, then continued.

            ‘In the beginning, the ranks of the shinobi consisted only of the Po’ Tun. Their campaign began well enough, with the Akaviri troops catching the forces of Tamriel off guard, creating plenty of openings for the shinobi. They soon found, however, that their unfamiliarity with the land hindered their progress and greatly increased the risk of their missions. Furthermore, since the Akaviri arrived from the north, many battles were fought at sea. The Po’ Tun were not inclined towards water, and couldn’t be of much help to the Tsaesci navy. So they sought help from one of the native peoples of Tamriel that has always had a history of animosity with the others.

            ‘They picked out the select few Argonians that had a natural affinity for stealth and agility, and trained them in their ways, inducting them into their order. Sadly, the Tsaesci looked down upon the Argonians even more than they did the Po’ Tun, viewing them as a mockery of their own race, with their dull scales and studded tails.

            ‘The shinobi forces from then on divided into two sections – the Po’ Tun, who struck almost with impunity from every dark corner of the land, became known as the Shadeclaws; while the Argonians, who operated at sea and combined their inborn aquatic prowess with shinobi teachings, were dubbed the Shadowscales.

            ‘Even for all their caution and precision, however, the shinobi couldn’t hold back the tide. In the year 1E 2703, Reman Cyrodiil the First trapped the invaders in the Jerall Mountains. Surrounded and boxed in by the sheer numbers of the Imperial Legion, the Akaviri fought and lost the Battle of Pale Pass. What came next is history, as they say.’

            ‘And the Po’ Tun?’ Valesse asked, though she had an inkling of what happened.

            Arn paused, then answered, albeit in a roundabout manner. ‘The Akaviri were defeated in early 2703, but their warriors and the Dragonguard were only formally inducted into the Legion by the end of 2704. Have you ever wondered what Reman I was doing during those two years?’

            ‘He was hunting shinobi,’ Valesse breathed. ‘Of course.’

            ‘Precisely. Having not been present at Pale Pass, the Shadeclaws vanished into the mountains, now familiar with the terrain. Reman, by then, had heard of the shinobi from the Akaviri upper echelon under his new command, and knew who was behind the mysterious incidents that had plagued his forces throughout the war. The man who later became worshipped as a god of war would never have allowed a thread as loose as this to go unattended. Along with his army, which had doubled in size – ‘

            ‘I thought the Legion already greatly outnumbered the Akaviri forces.’ Valesse interrupted.

            ‘That they did,’ Arn said, irritated. ‘But Reman went on to conquer Valenwood and the Summerset Isles, and not only the Akaviri had joined the Legion’s ranks. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…

            ‘Along with his army, which had doubled in size, he returned to the Jeralls, sweeping every nook and cranny of the mountains in the largest game of hide-and-seek in history.’

            ‘And the Shadeclaws managed to avoid him for almost two years?’ Valesse said, impressed.

            ‘They’d have remained hidden longer, even, had Reman not brought with him Akaviri representatives. Shadeclaw scouts noted the Tsaesci generals walking alongside him almost as friends. The shinobi Grandmaster, weary of war, deduced that he desired peace as much as they did, and so set out to meet the new Emperor. She made a decidedly showy entrance by appearing suddenly from a puff of smoke in Reman’s tent one night as he sat down to dinner.’

            Valesse giggled. ‘I like her flair.’

            ‘To the Emperor’s credit, he remained completely unfazed and invited her to join him for a meal,’ Arn said, chortling. ‘That’s what they claim, at least. And so, over the table, Reman and the Grandmaster negotiated the terms of their surrender. Reman offered complete amnesty, an Imperial stipend and the works, in exchange for the Shadeclaws’ loyalty and service.

            ‘The Grandmaster, who had grown to love the peace and tranquillity of the mountains and to enjoy not having to obey the whims of the Tsaesci, made a counter-offer. The Shadeclaws would remain on friendly terms with the Empire and never again threaten Tamriel, but in return, five leagues of the Jerall Mountains would be granted to them to do with as they see fit, and they would be allowed to retain their independence.

            ‘I don’t think anyone before or since has bargained with Reman so boldly, and he must have thought it a delightful change of pace. The Grandmaster had also chosen a fine period for aggressive negotiation, given the instability of Reman's fledgeling Empire. The Emperor agreed to her terms, though I daresay he regretted not having the Shadeclaws at his disposal many times during his later years.

            ‘The Shadeclaws regrouped and got to work, building a permanent stronghold on the flattened peak of a particularly steep mountain, which they named Mount Furiya after the Grandmaster. Over time, the stronghold grew to encompass the entire summit, becoming the Village Under the Shadow of the Moons, and there the Shadeclaw shinobi have dwelt for nearly two millennia, hidden from the rest of the world, their existence known only to the Emperor and a select few individuals.’

            Valesse nodded. ‘I believe I can guess what became of the Shadowscales, given their... current reputation.’

            ‘Aye, and an unfortunate tale it is at that.’ Arn sighed. ‘Cut off from all communications with the Akaviri and separated from the Po’ Tun, the only allies they ever had, they were hounded all across the Sea of Ghosts and the oceans beyond by the Imperial Navy. It is said that the Imperial battlemages devised spells with the specific purpose of scouring large swaths of water. Nine out of ten of the Argonian shinobi did not survive. The leader of the order at the time, one Tusok Shrouded-In-Rain, ordered a desperate retreat. I’m still not quite sure I believe this next part, but if true, Tusok was an incredible man, and possibly the last and greatest hero of the Shadowscales.

            ‘Under his leadership, the remaining shinobi actually  _swam_  all the way around the continent, back to Black Marsh, where, sadly, Tusok committed suicide, disembowelling himself in some forgotten Akaviri rite of defeat. Each generation of Shadowscales mingled more and more with the local scum and banished criminals from the Empire, while also becoming increasingly mired in ritual and superstition. Today they’ve all but forgotten their roots, and are little more than a band of cutthroats – an insult to their once proud ancestors.’

            Valesse shivered as she imagined a tall, quiet Argonian, robes undone, head bowed in shame, plunging a blade into his stomach. ‘How do you know all of this?’

            ‘I heard quite a lot of rumours and whispers when I was a Legate in the Legion. You become privy to all sorts of secrets when you get to the higher ranks. First and foremost, though, it’s because I saved a Shadeclaw’s life years ago, when he was on a mission in Hammerfell.’ Arn thrust his chest out proudly. ‘We became good friends.’

            ‘They’re still active?’ Valesse was shocked. ‘I thought they promised the Emperor – ‘

            ‘Never again to threaten Tamriel, yes,’ Arn replied. ‘And they kept their word. Each Grandmaster since Furiya has practiced strict policies against expansionism, even going as far as to restrict their birth rates with magic to ensure that their population stays under two thousand. But the Shadeclaws are still spies and assassins, and on occasion, the Empire would request their help. Sometimes to quell a bloody insurrection, or to gather information on otherwise inaccessible locations, others times even to rescue kidnapped members of state.

            ‘They’ve had a great deal of influence on the development of other cultures, too. Some say that the Khajiit of Elsweyr incorporated the use of honorifics in their own tongue after meeting with Po’ Tun scholars, who also passed on the claw-oriented martial arts of Goutfang, Rawlith Khaj and Whispering Fang. Still others claim that the Shadeclaws played a significant role in the formation of Morrowind’s modern Grand Council.’

            ‘Aren’t they independent of the Empire, though?’

            ‘They are,’ Arn said. ‘Notice that I said “request”, and not “command”. The Emperor himself bows when meeting the Grandmaster of the Shadeclaws.’

            ‘Truly?’ Valesse asked, eyes wide. ‘That’s a phenomenal amount of respect.’

            ‘Indeed it is, but well-deserved. You’ll see what I mean if you get a chance to meet the Grandmaster.’

            ‘How did this particular Shadeclaw come to owe you his life, then?’

            ‘He… I…’ Arn fidgeted. ‘Please don’t laugh?’

            ‘What?’

            He pressed his lips together for a while, then said suddenly, ‘He was struck by lightning while picking flowers.’

            Valesse stared at Arn. His face was straight, but he looked away uncomfortably.

             _Oh gods he’s telling the truth._

            She burst into laughter, her shoulders shaking.

            Arn pushed his chin out and pretended to be hurt, preserving his dignity while soaking in her pleasant, tinkling voice.

            ‘All right, I’m sorry,’ Valesse wiped her finger on her eye and hugged him from behind. ‘I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting something like that, a great “walker of shadows” getting hit with a bolt from the blue while frolicking in the fields of Hammerfell…’ She bit her tongue to stop herself from laughing again. ‘What’s his name?’ She asked, to keep herself distracted.

            ‘Jorra,’ Arn said, his lips beginning to twitch as well. ‘I can’t tell if Nocturnal has it in for him or not. He was dressed in normal clothing and looked for all the world like a humble Khajiit enjoying life. I was going through the plains of Belkarth after uncovering a Word Wall in the area, and I’d have passed right by him without batting an eye. Then out of nowhere this lightning bolt zigzags through the clear sky and blasts him right off his feet.’

            Valesse pushed her mouth into her fist, trying hard to stop air from escaping.

            ‘I ran over to him to see if he was alright. He was knocked unconscious and his fur was singed, but he was still breathing, so I carried him into town to find a healer. Unbelievably, the man was up on his feet after just five minutes or so of a basic spell of healing, the kind even I could do. The healer hadn’t even begun to get to the “actual work” as she put it, and was just looking to soothe his muscles and prevent tissue damage. He got up, stood straight, his hands to the side, and bowed at a ninety-degree angle to the healer, who waved at me, flustered, and told him that it was me that carried him to the hospice.

            ‘He turned to me, then bowed so low he almost hit the ground with his head. By now I was just plain embarrassed, so I told him he could buy me a drink or maybe a snack at the local inn to pay me back. I was half-joking, but he took it so seriously that he dragged me to one of the most expensive restaurants in Belkarth to lunch on Taneth Roast Boar.

            ‘I was really beginning to like this Jorra fellow, so I called for a bottle of Colovian ‘74 with my usual discerning eye and we played a hand of cards over it. Then when it came time to pay the bill, he found out that he didn’t have money on him. I sighed melodramatically and reached for my pocket. I then remembered that I had spent almost all my money on ale yesterday night and had exactly three septims left. So we ended up spending a night in the Belkarth dungeons.’

            ‘Classic,’ Valesse chuckled. ‘You should have married him instead.’

            ‘Anyway, we had to share a cell with a group of five Redguard thugs, who were unsurprisingly not keen on sleeping next to a scrawny cat and a stinking barbarian. They were picking on Jorra first, probably because he looked weaker. He smiled and humoured their insults, but when they started getting threatening… well…’ Arn scratched his head. ‘Actually I still don’t quite know what he did. It looked like he just prodded them in several spots along the head and neck, and then they collapsed to the ground, snoring.’

            ‘He must have targeted specific clusters of nerves with his claws,’ Valesse mused. ‘Those men are lucky he didn’t poke them harder.’

            ‘I suppose so. At any rate, the guards came in the next day to let us out, then saw the gang lying passed out on the floor with foam running from their mouths. They locked us back in for another week. By the end of it me and Jorra had become fast friends. Shadeclaws are exceedingly polite, and especially so to trusted allies - it's in their culture. Associates can sometimes even visit Tsukikage for a day or two. On the other hand, though, their existence remains a guarded secret, and they expect you to keep it that way. Frankly, it makes things a little awkward.’

            ‘And yet you’re telling me?’ Valesse reprimanded. ‘You ought to take such things more seriously.’

            ‘You were the one who started laughing at poor Jorra getting struck with lightning. And I’m taking you there anyway, so you might as well know where you’re going.’

            Arn lapsed into silence, until Valesse could bear it no longer.

            ‘Well, is that it? Nothing about how much of Akaviri customs they retained? What do they eat up on the mountain? What does the village look like?’

            ‘I don’t know how similar they are to the ancient Akaviri since I’ve never been to Akavir before. They do act differently from the other races of Tamriel, though, I can tell you that. They use Tamrielic as their main language, and are no longer as fluent in Akaviri, though they still practice it along with Akaviri calligraphy as a point of pride. I mentioned their use of honorifics before, which they add at the end of names to vary their degrees of respect when addressing people of different social positions. Food is mostly light, with slaughterfish and salmon caught from the mountain streams and lakes, served both raw and in various broths, some kind of moss or weed, mushrooms, a savoury black sauce fermented from soy for seasoning, and enchanted rice that grows even in snow. On special occasions they hunt for wild game and make a large stew. The village is surrounded by a large wall of stone, fortified with numerous spells that give it a slight glow, while the village itself is filled with buildings of wood and bamboo–’

            ‘How are the Shadeclaws trained? What abilities do they have? Do they use magic similar to ours?’

            ‘The Shadeclaws are taught everything from arithmetic and biology to martial arts and combat tactics. I don’t know the depth of their abilities myself, but they are some of the strongest and fastest sentient beings I’ve ever seen. They use Rendanshu, some form of Akaviri alchemy, to enhance their bodies far beyond their natural limits. I’ve heard Rikke mention how they could traverse thousands of leagues within mere minutes, though that’s probably an exaggerated myth borne out of their tendency to show up at just the right place at the right time. I’ve no idea what kind of magic they use as I’m not an expert and they don’t exactly bandy spells about. The usual fireballs and lightning bolts, sure, but Jorra says that they don’t encourage the use of spell tomes-’

            ‘How long do the Po’ Tun usually live? Do they mature more quickly like the Khajiit? What do you know of their use of alchemy?’

            ‘The Po’ Tun are slightly longer-lived than men and shorter-lived than mer, and can easily expect to reach one hundred and fifty years of age, if not two hundred. They grow at around the rate of average humanoids, and reach physical maturity around sixteen or seventeen, though they are considered adults only at nineteen. I know next to nothing about their alchemy-’

            ‘What kind of weapons do they use? How often do they undertake missions? Do they have any dealings with the warlords around them?’

            ‘Shor on a mammoth!’ Arn cried, flinging up his arms. ‘I’d forgotten how much you enjoyed torturing me with questions!’

            ‘You said it yourself, I should get to know where I’m going,’ Valesse said innocently, then leant close to his ear and hissed in a demonic whisper, ‘Don’t expect mercy.’

* * *

             She grilled, bombarded and fired away at him for well over a month, all the way to the middle of the Jeralls, stopping only to sleep and to fight off the Dragon Priests, whom they came across twice more, but in smaller numbers. This afternoon, however, she was eerily quiet, which both relieved and worried Arn.

            ‘Have a care, the rock here is covered with ice under a layer of snow.’

            Valesse nodded.

            ‘Are you hungry?’ He asked. ‘We still have food in our sacks.’

            ‘Mm.’ She shook her head.

            ‘Thirsty?’

            ‘No, don’t worry.’

            ‘If your feet are sore, we can stop for a moment.’

            ‘I’m fine.’

            ‘Are you sure?’

            ‘Mhm.’ She nodded again.

            ‘I feel like we switched places all of a sudden,’ he joked. ‘Don’t worry, we should reach Mount Furiya within the day.’

            Arn took her hand and helped her up a particularly steep ledge, taking care not to put pressure on her abdomen. They continued for a little while longer, until Valesse was panting heavily.

            ‘Right, we’re stopping,’ he said. ‘We’ll make it there soon enough, and I won’t have you walk yourself and the baby to death.’

            She swayed on the spot and nodded gratefully. Arn turned to the slope above him, mapping out a safe path in his head. Then he heard Valesse shout in warning.

            He spun, sword already in his hand, cloak flying off his shoulders.

            A man he could only describe as a heavily armoured troll with a braided beard loomed before him, a two-handed axe planted between his feet. Three more men accompanied him, though they looked nervous. Sweat beaded their lips, even as a frigid wind sent sleet billowing through the air.

            ‘This is my territory, outlander,’ he boomed. ‘State your business.’

            ‘Your territory?’ Arn said, an incredulous smile on his face. ‘Are you certain?’

            The man roared and reared back, his dwarven plate clanking. ‘All the mountains of these parts are mine. Mine! My name is Ungol, son of Ungol, and I own all the Jeralls from east to west!’

            ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Ungol Ungolsson,’ Arn managed not to roll his eyes. ‘But is it safe for us to speak here? I hear tell this particular mountain is haunted.’

            ‘Aye, haunted, haunted it is!’ One of Ungol’s footmen nodded hard. Arn noticed that he was beginning to shake. ‘Ghostly lights can be seen near the peak, and those who wander near disappear, never to be found again. We should not be wandering here, Ungol, sir, begging your pardon – ‘

            ‘I’ll have no more of your superstitious nonsense!’ Ungol’s beard shook and spittle flew from his mouth. ‘This is no place for the weak or faint of heart. Anyone can easily fall to their deaths, or freeze, or starve.’

            ‘But the ghosts, sir! On days when they’re angry, they swoop into our midst and carry men away, sometimes even striking them dead on the spot!’ another lackey stammered. ‘That’s how Darrin met his end, I know it, and just last week Morgen vanished from his bed – ‘

            ‘ENOUGH!’ Ungol hefted his axe. ‘THE NEXT MAN TO SPEAK OF GHOSTS LOSES HIS TONGUE!’

            There was a brief moment of silence, and then Arn could hold himself back no longer.

            ‘Boo,’ he sniggered.

            Ungol’s face swelled with rage and he lifted his axe above his head. Quick as a rabbit, Arn leapt backwards. Then he noticed one of the shadows behind a nearby rock seem to shift ever so slightly, and he smiled to himself.

            There was a rapid series of light  _thwacks_. Two of the footmen shuddered, corpses even before they keeled over. A pair of dark silhouettes flitted from either side of the rock, apparently devoid of shape or form. Ungol’s final man covered his eyes and shrieked.

            ‘The ghosts, the ghosts are here, they’re coming for us-’

            ‘Be quiet,’ Ungol growled, and swung his axe at one of the shadows. The axe-bit whooshed, cutting through empty air. Both shades vanished. Ungol gaped, then a hole appeared in his right temple. A small amount of blood seeped from the wound and he collapsed, mouth working for a while, then expired on the ground. The lackey started sobbing, pleading for help from all the Aedra and Daedra. He was halfway across the list when a gloved hand appeared behind his shoulder, grasping a strange, rhombus-bladed dagger made of a dark grey metal, with a large ring of the same material for a pommel. The hand thrust sideways, burying the dagger into his ear, right up to its cloth-wrapped hilt. The footman twitched once and pitched face first into the snow. A humanoid figure stood in his place, clad in a black, hooded tunic. The figure raised its head, revealing dark grey fur.

            Valesse found her breath again.

            ‘Greetings,’ Arn raised a hand. ‘If you haven’t seen me before, don’t worry. I’m a friend of Jorra’s…’

            ‘We know who you are, Arngrimur-do.’ The second Shadeclaw emerged from the same rock they were hiding behind a moment ago, his voice pleasant and modulated. ‘Though I’m a little hurt you don’t recognise us.’

             _When did he…?_

            ‘Well, you’ve the annoying habit of covering your faces with cowls and hoods whenever you go outside,’ Arn said defensively. ‘Isn’t not getting recognised why you wear those things in the first place?’

            ‘Just so,’ the Shadeclaw with the dagger chuckled, his tones even softer than his comrade’s. ‘And leave the poor man alone, Kenshiki. He must have travelled wide and far. His boots are all worn.’

            ‘Kenshiki?’ Arn said, eyebrows raised. ‘Then you must be Gingaki. The two of you still on guard duty?’

            ‘As we always are,’ Kenshiki pulled his cowl from his face. His fur was a tawny shade of brown. ‘Perhaps in another ten years we will entrust the western wall to the new sentinels, but they still have much to learn.’

            ‘And I assume this is your lovely wife Valesse?’ Gingaki asked, bowing deep. ‘Jorra-jo has told us of your betrothal. My heartiest congratulations.’

            Valesse struggled to return the bow, her swollen abdomen bulging, and Gingaki said hurriedly, ‘Please, do not strain yourself, Valesse-ko.’

            ‘I see you have been busy,’ Kenshiki remarked dryly, then continued in a more serious tone, ‘I’m afraid we will likely not be allowed to let Valesse-ko inside. Do not mistake me. We are, all of us, happy for you both. But Tsukikage is not a birthing chamber - or a tourist attraction. I cannot fathom why you thought bringing your wife here would be a good idea, especially in her condition.’

            ‘It’s a long story,’ Arn replied. ‘But we are both in danger. Dragon Priests pursue us. I can’t and I won’t abandon my wife, and facing the Priests before she gives birth is out of the question. Please - help us.’ There was a tinge of desperation in his voice.

            Gingaki and Kenshiki frowned at each other. ‘Dragon... Priests? I have read of them. This complicates matters.’

            ‘Perhaps the Grandmaster would be willing to make an exception? It  _is_  Arngrimur-do after all…’

            ‘Takarro-ri is lenient, but even so, sometimes rules are simply rules.’

            ‘If these rules dictate that we are to turn pregnant women away from our doors – what is that smell?’

            Kenshiki stopped, and sniffed. He looked past Arn and his eyes widened.

            Valesse’s face was clammy and deathly pale, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The bottom of her robes were soaked through. She shivered, and a fresh gush of fluid pooled between her legs.

            Arn went insane.

            ‘IT BROKE BY TALOS IT BROKE,’ he grabbed Kenshiki by the collar and shook. ‘IT BROKE IT BROKE IT BROKE IT BROKE IT BROKE…’

            ‘Arngrimur-do. Arngrimur-do!’ Gingaki said as Kenshiki’s head lolled back and forth. ‘Calm yourself, Arngrimur-do!’ He reached out and pinched Arn lightly behind the ear and on the side of the neck.

            Arn stumbled, dazed, and released Kenshiki, who was even more dazed.

            ‘Damn it, you two, I’m taking her to the village whether you approve of it or not. I’ll go through you if I have to.’

            The shinobi exchanged another glance, then nodded in unison. They both picked up Valesse by one arm and began to run, their feet barely making prints in the soft snow, motioning for Arn to follow.

            A thousand years of weight dropped from his face and he sprinted behind them, his dizziness forgotten. When he fell behind, he used the Thu’um to race ahead. The Shadeclaws tilted their heads in curiosity.

            The last flicker of sunlight vanished from the night sky. Masser and Secunda rose bright, illuminating a silver wall of coldly flickering stone. A gate of moonstone lay under an arch in the wall, the Akaviri glyph for ‘Shadow’ carved on the left, and the glyph for ‘Moon’ on the right.

            They had arrived at Tsukikage.


	4. Chapter 4

 

                The halls of the Tsukikage Hospice were silent. Arngrimur paced back and forth outside one of the only rooms alight, chewing on his lower lip.

                ‘Stop fidgeting.’ A Po’ Tun sidled up next to him, patting his back with an arm covered with blueish-grey fur. ‘Valesse-ko will be alright.’

                ‘She’s not yelling or screaming,’ Arn said nervously. ‘I don’t know if it’s good or bad.’

                ‘Good,’ the Po’ Tun replied, nonplussed. ‘What kind of world do you live in? Why would no screaming worry you?’

                ‘Maybe not all pregnant women have access to ancient magic and alchemy, Jorra,’ Arn snapped. ‘Some of them die giving birth.’

                Jorra’s whiskers twitched. ‘My, my, somebody’s simmering tonight.’

                Arn’s lips tightened and he looked away for a while, shrugging off Jorra’s hand. Then he turned and said, in low tones, ‘Sorry, I’m just – ‘

                ‘Worried. Anxious. Nervous. Terrified. Something along those lines.’

                ‘I’m afraid, yes,’ Arn admitted. ‘But that’s no excuse to be rude to an old friend.’ He turned and grasped Jorra by the forearm, even as the Shadeclaw did the same.

                ‘It’s good of you to come,’ he said. ‘Waiting alone is pure agony.’

                ‘Don’t worry, Arngrimur,’ Jorra released his arm and smiled confidently. ‘Valesse-ko  _does_ have access to our magic. Our healers and midwives all know the art of Regeneration inside and out.’

                ‘You mean Restoration.’

                ‘Hmm… yes and no. For all intents and purposes they seem the same, but there is a difference in principle. The Tamrielic magic school of Restoration focuses on bolstering and at times manipulating the vital essence of living beings, thus accelerating healing or causing harm to undead with said essences. The Akaviri art of Regeneration focuses on reconstituting the body using Magicka itself, and is restricted to healing only, though it is a great deal more accurate.’

                ‘And what are these midwives doing to help Valesse?’

                ‘Oh, many things,’ Jorra said. ‘Dulling the pain of her contractions. Enhancing and fortifying her peripheral muscles so that they can widen more easily. The most skilled of them can even adjust the position of the baby to ensure that he – it’s a boy, correct? – exits the womb without any complications.’

                Arn’s face lightened further, and he let out a relieved chortle. ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

                ‘Hmm. The Sixth Grandmaster Ranyun-ri was said to be such a master of Regeneration, she could reach into the womb and pull the child out herself. It pains me to say that none of the current midwives, or any of our healers for that matter, possess such talent. Sorry, old friend.’

                ‘…I was being rhetorical.’

                ‘If you so wish, I could request for them to attempt – ‘

                ‘No, no,’ Arn said quickly. ‘What you’re doing is more than enough. It would be presumptuous of me to ask for more.’

                ‘It wouldn’t,’ Jorra said seriously. ‘I owe you my life, after all.’

                ‘And I’ve collected on it so many times it might as well be me who owes you,’ Arn replied, then thought for a while. ‘If possible, then, could you…’

                The doors they were waiting in front of opened and a dishevelled Po’ Tun poked her head out. She was beaming. ‘It’s done. Congratulations, Arngrimur-do, your son is…’

                The high, hiccupping wails of an infant reached his ears. Arn’s face went slack, and he positively danced into the room, laughing.

                The baby was even smaller than he’d expected. Stubby arms and legs waved in the air, and his umbilical cord had just been snipped. The three midwives had already started rinsing the child, and rivulets of red ran into a small bucket.

                Arn held out his hand, then stopped and said reverently, ‘May I?’

                The midwife who’d borne the news nodded. ‘The child is stable, and has taken his first breath. We are sorry you could not be here beside your wife, but we could not risk disrupting the magic circles. We have little experience of operating on Altmer – in a medical capacity.’ She grinned toothily, and Arn was reminded of the fact that every Po’ Tun inside Tsukikage was trained as a shinobi.

                She handed over the baby, and Arn cradled him gently, the most precious gem in the entire world. ‘You people need to stop apologising when you’ve all done so much already,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

                He bent over the child, devouring it with his eyes. A lock of black hair, the same raven shade as Valesse’s, curled from the top of his head. His ears were tapered to a point, though not as much as his mother’s. His face was still pudgy and unrefined, so Arn couldn’t make out much of his features. He’d stopped crying, and was looking around curiously. His eyes were neither Arn’s blue or Valesse’s green, though. They gleamed a bright silver.

                ‘He’s beautiful,’ Arn breathed. ‘He’s beautiful, Valesse.’

                Valesse was lying on a bed, surrounded by runes that were fading by the second. ‘Our son.’ Her face and body sagged weakly, but her eyes shone. ‘Our baby son.’

                Arn carried the infant over to her, sitting down on the bed next to her pillows. ‘Here,’ he said. Jorra had never heard his voice so tender.

                Arngrimur and Valesse stayed there, gazing at their child. After a moment, Arn spoke.

                ‘Are you feeling all right?’

                Valesse stirred and smiled up at him. ‘I am. It didn’t even hurt that much in the end. I’m just tired.’

                ‘Mhm. Get some sleep, then. I’ll put him here, right beside you.’

                ‘Put him in the cradle,’ Valesse murmured as she drifted off. ‘Or he’ll fall…’

* * *

                Jorra was waiting outside.

                ‘Your wife’s hardiness is… most impressive,’ he said as Arn stepped out of the room. ‘To continue travelling all the way, while bearing a child, from Skyrim up to Furiya, accompanied by you, no less.’

                ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Arn grumbled. ‘I’ll have you know that I make excellent travelling company.’

                ‘And also drinking company, until it comes time to pay the bills.’

                ‘Hah! You’re one to talk.’

                The two shared a laugh as only old friends could, and then Jorra’s grin turned into a mild grimace. He started walking down the corridors, Arn trailing behind him. ‘Right, now that Valesse-ko is asleep, we had better go and see the Grandmaster. I hope he doesn’t get too angry.’

                Arn waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Grandmaster is still Takarro, no? We’ll be fine, the old man was always a reasonable one.’

                ‘True,’ Jorra said, picking at his fur. ‘I suppose it’s Bengakhi we should be worried about. He’s been raised to the position of advisor.’

                ‘Bengakhi? Who’s that?’

                ‘Formerly in charge of security. Next in line for Grandmaster, and quite stringent.’

                ‘Always one of those, isn’t there?’

                ‘Careful what you say around him,’ Jorra warned. ‘He’s extremely wary of outsiders. Half of the time I don’t think he trusts even his fellow Shadeclaws.’

                ‘Sounds charming,’ Arn muttered. ‘Well, then, we’re here. Unless they moved the Council Chamber someplace else…’

                ‘The Chamber has always been here.’ Jorra said. They both paused outside the wooden doors.

                ‘All right, let’s not delay,’ Arn said, and went inside. Gingaki and Kenshiki were inside, kneeling on one knee, speaking with a broad-shouldered Po’ Tun with orange and black stripes, clad in a dark red tunic. He was sitting at a desk and taking notes with a stylus.

                ‘…Kenshiki created an opening and eliminated two with tobari, allowing me to close the distance with Ungol and stab him through the skull. I did the same with his final man.’ Gingaki was saying.

                ‘Equipment used – tobari, kunai,’ the striped Shadeclaw noted, scribbling with his stylus. ‘Very well. Dismissed.’

                Gingaki and Kenshiki rose, bowed, and left the room. ‘Master Bengakhi, sir,’ Jorra said, bowing himself.

                ‘Tobari?’ Arn asked, surprised at his curiosity.  _Valesse must have rubbed off on me_.

                The advisor rose, his voice gruff. ‘Throwing needles. Used mainly for distractions, but with good aim, a skilled shinobi can kill with it as well. You are Arngrimur, yes? Jorra’s friend, the Imperial Legate?’

                ‘Aye, that I am, and that I was.’ Arn said cautiously.

                ‘Am I to understand that you came here, hunted by the Nordic spectres known as Dragon Priests?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘With your heavily pregnant wife?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘Who gave birth to a boy just now in the hospice?’

                ‘…yes.’

                ‘I see.’ Bengakhi said, his orange mane ruffling. ‘You, your wife and your son will leave at first light.’

                ‘But sir – ‘

                ‘I will not allow anyone to compromise the security of the village!’ he snapped, and Jorra lapsed into silence.

                ‘I regret that you must be turned out in this manner,’ he continued, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But the safety of Tsukikage takes priority.’

                Arn was about to argue, but thought better of it. Then a small chuckle rang out behind him.

                ‘No need for such rash action.’ A figure with fur as white as his robes stepped out from between Jorra and Arn. ‘I’m sure Arngrimur-do means no harm.’

                ‘That may be so, Takarro-dro, but intentional or not, if he leads these Dragon Priests to us…’

                ‘Have some more faith in our enchantments, Bengakhi,’ the Grandmaster admonished. ‘Or have you lost trust even in Furiya-ri?’

                ‘Faith and trust won’t keep Tsukikage from burning to the ground,’ Bengakhi snarled, and stalked out of the room.

                ‘Forgive Bengakhi, Arngrimur-do.’ The Grandmaster said, sitting down at his desk. ‘He is a touch paranoid at times. I must admit, however, that even I was a little taken aback by your boldness this time. Never in all our history has an outsider ever given birth in Tsukikage.’

                Jorra and Arn both spoke at the same time.

                ‘It was my fault, old man, I forced this on Jorra, he never – ‘

                ‘I should take all responsibility, Takarro-ri, Arngrimur was simply desperate – ‘

                Grandmaster Takarro tilted his head back and laughed, then shook his head. ‘Think nothing of it. Neither of you has ever been much for following rules. You may stay until Valesse-ko is once again fit for travel. We have prepared a room for you in the hospice.’

                ‘Thank you,’ Arn said. ‘But Bengakhi does have a point. I refuse to look over my shoulders in fear every day. That is no way to raise a child. I must deal with the Dragon Priests before I take my son back to Tamriel.’

                ‘If the Shadeclaws can assist you in that regard – ‘

                ‘Jorra,’ Takarro rumbled in a voice an octave lower. ‘Do not make any more hasty promises.’

                Jorra’s skin went pale under his fur. ‘Of course not, Grandmaster.’

                He turned to check if Arn was still there, but he had already left the room. 

* * *

                Valesse woke slowly, her body light for the first time in months.

                She turned to her left, looking at her son, sleeping peacefully in an ivory cradle. She gazed at him for a full hour, then yawned and rolled off the bed to her feet, her own agility surprising her.

                ‘You’re awake,’ the midwife sitting next to her said. ‘And fully refreshed as well. You are quite compatible with our spells, I see. Jorra-jo tells me that you have studied magic extensively?’

                ‘Shut myself in a library on the Summerset Isles for ten years,’ Valesse said, remembering the stacks of old tomes and feeling a flash of nostalgia. ‘Then spent forty winters as an apprentice to a Morrowind master wizard.’ She left out the part about enlisting in the Thalmor, however.

                ‘Ah, indeed? That is a great many years of wielding Magicka.’ The midwife nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps that’s why your connection to Aetherius is unusually strong,’ she continued. ‘It shows in your child as well.’

                ‘Really?’ Valesse’s eyes brightened.

                ‘He has the makings of a great mage already. You must be proud.’

                 _I don’t need my son to be a mage to be proud of him_.

                ‘Of course I am,’ Valesse said, smiling. ‘Where’s Arngrimur? I’d like to tell him all about it.’

                ‘Arngrimur-do has been assigned a room next to yours.’ The midwife said. ‘Perhaps he is still asleep. He was meeting with the Grandmaster late in the night.’

                ‘He probably doesn’t expect me to be able to walk yet. Maybe I’ll wake him up, give him a little shock.’ With that, she tiptoed out, heading for the room to the right of hers.

                It was empty.

                The midwife poked her head in. ‘Oh? It seems Arngrimur-do never went to bed at all. He’s even taken his sword and shield – ‘

                There was a clatter of sound as Valesse rushed back to her room, pulled her robes and boots on, then sped out of the hospice.

                She came across Jorra when she reached the moonstone gates.

                ‘Valesse-ko?’ he asked. ‘Please, slow down before you hurt yourself. And have you seen Arngrimur?’

                ‘The idiot!’ Valesse yelled. ‘No time to explain, please look after my baby until I get back!’

                She ran at full tilt past the gates and out of the Village, soon a tiny blot in the distance.

                ‘What happened?’ Jorra asked the midwife, who seemed just as confused as he was.

                ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘She was fine one moment, the next she was sprinting away. She even forgot her gloves.’

                Jorra looked at the snow glittering in the morning sun, unease filling his stomach as the gates swung close once more.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 _For the Eyes of His Imperial Majesty Titus Mede the Second Only_  

_11 th of Hearthfire, 4E 182_

_Your Imperial Majesty,_

_This is a formal report of the incident that occurred two months ago in the northern seas of High Rock, which resulted in the complete vaporisation of the entire Bay of Farrun and left a crater of unprecedented size in its place (which the masses have taken to calling the Farrun Crater) as well as a land bridge connecting Farrun and Northpoint. The immediate effects of the incident were felt throughout all Tamriel – perhaps further._

_The drying of such a large body of water in such a short time (experts in meteorology, geography and the Destruction School of magic as well as first-hand eyewitness reports all confirm that it took place in an instant, or no more than a span of five seconds) led to immense tidal fluctuations all across the Eltheric Ocean, which in turn disrupted the currents of the Pandomaic Ocean as well. Interviews with inhabitants of coastal cities all have one common denominator: gargantuan waves hundreds or thousands of times the size of the norm appearing as if from nowhere, rising from the shoreline mere metres from dry land, blotting out the sun itself._

_It may come as a pleasant surprise to your Imperial Majesty to learn that there have been no reported casualties. According to eighty-six percent of all eyewitnesses, the waves retracted slowly back into the sea just as they were above to crash into the coast, in what they could only describe as a complete reversal of the water’s movement. Most citizens were only mildly soaked. Even ships and boats carried skywards by the rising seas suffered almost no damage due to the lack of speed in the water’s descent._

_The tale is the same out further at sea, except no giant waves were ever reported. Captains returning from long voyages out in the oceans all claim that the only unnatural experience they had was a sense of some unknown massive object or force passing under them with incredible speed._

_Ships in the bay itself were damaged to some extent, though not as much as falling from the surface of the water to the now-dry bottom would suggest. All sailors survived, albeit with minor injuries. An unnamed wizard garbed in the robes of House Telvanni, who was found lurking in the crater for unknown reasons, suggested that the steam’s upward momentum resulting from the vaporisation cushioned the fall of the ships. Our own mages corroborated this claim, and added that the deeper the waters the ship was cruising in, the larger the amount of water, and thus the more steam the ship would have had to support its drop. The Praefect in charge of the reclamation of the bay was unable to detain the wizard for questioning, and has been suspended from duty pending an ongoing investigation._

_Aside from the fluctuations in oceanic currents, a myriad of other effects has been observed over the weeks following the event, including but not limited to:_

_\- Increased Precipitation and Flooding in Northwest Tamriel_

_\- Decreased Precipitation and Drought in Southeast Tamriel_

_\- Minor earthquakes_

_\- Drying of almost all rivers and streams in East High Rock*_

_\- Spread of plague in the coastal regions along the former Farrun Bay, resulting from the amount of dead aquatic life in the crater**_

_For a detailed list of the full repercussions of the drying of Farrun Bay, please see the attached report by Yanmac Kellen, master wizard and specialist in geography attached to the Legion._

_*It should be noted that many regions in High Rock are currently flooded due to heavy rain brought about by the incident, and some theorise that the water may simply follow the dried rivers and flow back into the bay. This could have disastrous consequences, as the water itself is no longer seawater, nor clean freshwater. Also see below._

_**The Imperial Legion has swiftly contained the situation, which remains stable so far with extensive use of quarantines and Restoration magic. The Sixth and Eleventh Legions have cleaned and reclaimed two-thirds of the crater, and are moving on to the last sections. So far, only twenty men have fallen ill. Master Kellen warns, however, that the crater itself will likely remain a hotbed of disease for years to come, with infection seeping into the dirt and silt of the dried seabed. He advises controlled application of Fire magic deep into the bowels of the earth of the crater to nullify any pestilence, then converting the resulting fertile soil into farmland. This project will likely take years, if not decades, and will come to ruin were the water from the floods to flow back into the bay. Master Kellen suggests even more usage of Fire magic to vaporise the floodwater slowly, restoring natural precipitation across Tamriel._

_The cause of the incident itself is believed to be magical. Witnesses report a blinding flash of white light from the bay. Cross-referencing the results of interviews in different spots along the coast, the Sixth Legion determined the exact location the light emanated from, and uncovered a large hole within the crater, six hundred feet in diameter. Imperial Battlemages confirmed that the hole was indeed made with magic – though magic of the likes of which they’d never seen. After studying the edges of the hole, they came to the conclusion that the source was an ‘omnidirectional emission of pure magical energy’ that was powerful enough to reduce all matter within range to their basest particles. The mages also believe that this infused the Eltheric and Pandomaic Oceans with magic that resonated with the emission itself. The enchanted water became drawn to the empty void left once the emission faded, causing them to retrace their original paths completely and preventing any loss of life._

_No single recorded mage, or indeed any number of mages, have exhibited power of this degree. Initial theories about this being an act of sabotage by the Thalmor have been debunked – reports from reliable agents indicate that not even the Aldmeri Dominion possesses such might._

_If this is some form of natural disaster, then the Empire must take precautions and prepare for events of such magnitude to reoccur._

_If this was a demonstration by some unknown power, then this entity(s?) has the ability to sow destruction with unrivalled capacity across all the continent, and may very well be able to wipe Tamriel off the map completely. This is unlikely, however, since no demands or claims have been made thus far, and an area with a populace of zero was the epicentre of the blast._

_The Imperial Legion awaits your Majesty’s command to resume the reclamation of the Farrun Crater._

 

_Long Live the Emperor,_

_General Cornelius_

_Sixth Legion_

* * *

 

                 Farrun, coastal city of High Rock. The people there lived a simple life compared to the rest of the wealthy cities of the province.  _Although,_  Arngrimur thought.  _Knowing Northpoint, Daggerfall and Evermore, that does not say much._

                He stood on the bay, the sea breeze blowing through his beard, the late afternoon sun adding to the yellow hue of the horns on his helmet. Overhead, a pair of seagulls squawked and circled each other.

                Then he hopped down to the wharf, where the waves lapped against the docks. An old, grizzled fisherman was in the middle of tying his small rowboat to a quay.

                ‘Ho there!’ Arn said as he approached. The fisherman looked up, blinking as the sun glared into his eyes.

                ‘What d’you want?’ He said, rubbing his eyes. ‘If it’s a trip out to sea, well, you’re a little too late. Come back tomorrow.’

                ‘How much for your boat, then?’

                The fisherman squinted, chewing on some kind of weed. Then he grinned. He knew a desperate man when he saw one. ‘This rickety piece of junk?’ He pointed, then spat a gob of phlegm into the sea. ‘One thousand septims.’

                ‘ONE THOU- ‘

                ‘Now, now, keep yer voice down, people are staring.’

                ‘Three hundred.’

                ‘Eight hundred.’

                ‘Four hundred fifty, no more.’

                ‘Six hundred fifty, or you can swim wherever you’re going.’

                ‘Fine. I’m sure there are other boatmen who’d be willing to make some septims,’ Arn said, and made to leave. ‘Drink themselves senseless tonight.’

                ‘All right, all right!’ the old man said hurriedly. ‘Yer a better barterer than you look, Nord. Five hundred septims. Not that much more than four fifty…’

                Arn took his purse from his hip and counted out the coin. Then a familiar voice behind him said in eerily buoyant tones, ‘ _Dearest husband!_ ’

                Droplets of sweat broke out all over his face, and he could swear he felt his straw hair whitening. He let out a most un-Nordic squeak.

                With years of sailing in his blood, the fisherman could tell when monsoons were about to blow into port. He took the gold and shambled off without looking back, whistling a merry tune. He was not spared the storm, however. A barrage of noise sent him sprawling, and his whistling rose to a shrill pitch as he took to his heels.

                For nigh on an hour the residents of the city stayed home and locked their doors, fearing for their lives. Dogs covered themselves with their paws, whimpering, and birds fled the area in droves.

                Arn laid face down on the pier, the inner workings of his ears disrupted too badly for him to stand.  _Thank Talos she never studied the Thu’um._

                Valesse leant over him, experiencing no fatigue at all from her outburst.

                ‘Now then, Arngrimur,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Why Farrun?’

                ‘If I can just… stand up…’ Arn groaned, then flopped over on his back like a dead fish.

* * *

                He explained as they cast off into the bay.

                ‘The Dragon Priests are on alert for me now. I’m no longer under the protection of Tsukikage’s wards, and I took down another one of them when I crossed the Reach into High Rock, so they must know I’m here. I also have a stinking suspicion that they’ve been using some form of scrying to track my movements. I intend to – ‘

                ‘How would they know if you killed the one you met?’

                ‘I cut his mask in two. Dragon Priests can sense it when one of their masks breaks. Took me a while, but after thrusting my sword into every quarter-inch of the strange material, I found that it had a seam right behind the jaw, where it’s usually protected by their golden armour. A forceful stab there can weaken it. Took me a dozen blows to actually break the thing, though. As I was saying, I intend to go to an island in the middle of the bay, then draw the Priests out with the Voice. Though after that tirade you just gave, they’re probably on their way already…’ Arn winced as his ear throbbed.

                ‘Don’t you start playing the victim,’ Valesse warned. ‘Or I’ll throw even more at you all the way back to Tsukikage.’

                ‘Speaking of which… you left the baby back there?’

                ‘I’d already guessed what you were doing, so I left him safely with Jorra. What you’re  _thinking_ , however, is beyond me,’ she snapped. ‘Do you even know how many of them there are? There could be twenty, even thirty of them. We almost died fighting six.’

                ‘Yes, but I know where to hit them now. Besides, given your condition – ‘

                ‘Oh? Do I look the least bit indisposed to you? I managed to catch up to you with a one-night head start. What’s that tell you, hmm?’

                ‘That you’re completely fine,’ he held up his hands, trying to placate her.

                ‘I’m more than fine. With the child born I have full access to my magic once again. How do you think I found you? I cast a divination. By myself, mind you, and no ingredients in the spell except magicka. So don’t you start!’

                No answer. She peered at Arn curiously. He was smiling at her, blue eyes even brighter than usual.

                ‘What?’ she said suspiciously.

                ‘Nothing,’ he beamed. ‘It’s just… I always knew you were resilient, but to give birth, then proceed to be on your feet and strutting about casting spells after just one night’s rest? You’re a much tougher warrior than I am, Valesse, and you don’t even swing a sword.’

                Valesse’s heart fluttered, and she suddenly felt short of breath. She berated herself for behaving like a little schoolgirl. ‘Flatterer,’ she mumbled, and looked away, her cheeks dimpling.

                She sobered quickly enough, though, as Arn stopped rowing and said, ‘We’re here.’

                The island was a small stretch of sand and jagged rock, with some grass growing in small patches. The couple dragged the boat onto the shore, then strode to the centre.

                Arn flexed, rolling his shoulders. ‘No reason to wait!’ He drew in a deep breath.

                Valesse clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Yes there is,’ she hissed. ‘Let’s decide on a plan first. This won’t be easy, and it’ll go doubly hard if we charge in blindly.’

                ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘So what do we do?’

                ‘First, let’s run over their weaknesses. What do we know? You mentioned that their masks have a seam directly beneath the jawline. I won’t be able to damage those with my spells, unless I can hit it with a projectile in precisely that location, which will be almost impossible from a distance. That’s going to fall to you, then.’

                ‘We know that they can be reduced to ashes with a powerful enough spell,’ Arn picked up where she left off. ‘But you need time to gather so much Magicka. They can be cut into fine pieces and scattered that way, and their bodies are no more durable than that of normal people.’

                ‘And their strengths? As far as I can tell from my encounters with them, they’re extremely powerful mages with seemingly endless reserves of Magicka, and I’ve never seen them resort to attacking in close range before. Then again, their emaciated frames might suggest that they can’t.’

                ‘You need only look at the draugr for proof of the contrary, though they do prefer magic. Their Magicka is not unlimited, but they recover it from Aetherius so quickly that it might as well be so.’

                They discussed various more factors, both relating to the Priests and their own fighting condition.

                ‘…so I might need to move a little more slowly and save up my strength.’ Arn finished.

                ‘One last thing. You mentioned that they might have been scrying you. Why didn’t they attack if they knew where you were?’

                ‘I don’t know. Maybe their scrying was of the sort that revealed my appearance but not my surroundings? Maybe they were preparing like we were.’ He shrugged.

                ‘All right then, I’m ready.’ Valesse said, her voice low. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do…’

* * *

 

                The sun was setting as what looked like a migrating flock of birds emerged from the clouds above High Rock. They zoomed past Jehanna and stopped over Farrun, hovering.

                From the middle of the sea came a great roar, as if some ancient beast had awakened. The Dragon Priests paused. It sounded like their masters of yore. Then they turned to the direction of the roar as one.

                ‘Dovahkiin…’

                On the island in the centre of the bay, Arngrimur snapped his jaws shut, then unsheathed his sword. Valesse stood at his side, casting all the spells of fortification she knew on both of them.

                Eight spectres descended onto the sand, their masks glinting in the dying light.

                They landed square on the four translucent runes that Valesse had set minutes ago. The ground erupted in a flurry of cold. The Priests stumbled, thin, white webs spreading across their bodies.

                Arn stepped forward, the Thu’um coiling in his mouth.

                ‘ _IIZ SLEN NUS._ ’ Frost blew from between his lips as well.

                Unable to withstand both the Nord Shout and Altmer magic, the Dovah-Sonaak froze solid, tumbling to the ground as rigid as statues.

                Arn grabbed his sword along the blade, using his left hand to guide it as he would a spear. He jabbed two of them along the side of the neck, and they wasted away into crystalline dust, the strange glow fading in the split halves of the mask.

                The third one had its head crooked at an odd angle, chin buried in its shoulder. Instead of wasting time finding an opening, Arn simply raised his shield and slammed it into the Priest’s scrawny chest with all his might. The creature shattered into tiny fragments.

                He reached the fourth and disposed of it the same way he did the first two, then missed by a hair on the fifth. The tip of the steel sword bounced off the frozen surface of the mask, leaving a crack. A low hum filled the air.

                Arn uttered an oath and retreated to the left, hopping backwards once and crouching behind a nearby outcropping. The Priest rose, positively sibilating with malice, as the shell of ice crumbled away.

                It glided over to the other Sonaak and thawed them out with short bursts of fire.

                 _How appropriate,_  Arn thought to himself as the remaining four headed sideways for a clear shot, hissing in rage, magical energy building in their hands. They stepped on the new runes that Valesse had placed while they were immobilised, realising too late what the pair had lured them into.

                The runes activated, bathing the Priests in a large swath of twisting flame. With their numbers reduced and herded into a small group, Arn vaulted over the rock and Shouted again.

                ‘ _YOL TOR SHUL_.’

                This time, the Thu’um exploded from his throat in a conflagration of bright orange. Once again, the Sonaak proved incapable of weathering the combination. They disappeared in the blaze, leaving behind their masks and four black splotches.

                Arn sat down hard on the sand, gasping raggedly for air.

                ‘You don’t look well,’ Valesse said worriedly.

                ‘Never chained two Shouts together so quickly before,’ he wheezed. ‘Let alone two with nearly opposite effects.’

                ‘Will you be – ‘

                He took several more gulps of air, then relaxed.

                ‘Whew. That really took a lot out of me. Might need to sleep in on the island before we go back. I don’t suppose you brought any bedrolls?’

                Valesse was silent, staring straight upwards, the blood draining from her face.

                ‘Is something wrong?’

                Arn followed her gaze. His sword slid from his nerveless fingers as the last streaks of dusk vanished from the horizon.

                Twenty Priests floated in front of them, looking almost amused. Staves glowed in their hands, set with soul gems of pure black.

                He willed himself back onto his feet, picking up his sword and staggering slightly.

                ‘This is going to be a hard drudge,’ he said, covering himself with his shield and stepping in front of Valesse.

                Then twenty more Priests thudded into the sand behind them. Arn growled and extended his sword backwards in their direction.

                Twenty others approached from the right.

                Then another twenty from the left, completing the circle and surrounding them.

                ‘I can’t believe it,’ Arn murmured. ‘Were there always this many of you in Tamriel?’

                ‘Why are you hounding us like this?’ Valesse cried. ‘What do you want?’

                ‘Is it about the ones I defeated at the Word Walls?’ Arn demanded. ‘Krosis and Volsung, was it?’

                The Priests said nothing, but five among the twenty in front broke from the group and flew closer around them, eyes aglow behind the slits of their masks. One of them studied Arn particularly closely, then shook his head. Another swept behind him and inspected Valesse for a brief moment before being forced back by the point of his sword.

                The five Sonaak regrouped, huddling amidst themselves. Arn caught phrases of the Dragon Language and shifted, apprehensive. They whirled and pointed at Valesse’s belly abruptly, screeching in unison.

                ‘ _Faal sosin lo mii! Dovahkiin los ni het! Rek ahrk faal vun fent biis ko sos!_ ’

                The other Priests took up the cry. ‘ _SOSAAL! SOSAAL!_ ’

                Arn trembled with mingled rage and horror as the truth dawned on him.

                ‘ _They’re after our son,_ ’ he growled, the ground on the island shaking along with his voice. ‘ _They’re hunting my baby boy._ ’

                Power surged into his limbs. He looked at Valesse and saw the same fury written across her face.

                They both let out a raw-throated howl as the Priests fell upon them from all sides.

* * *

                Gouts of flame and lightning filled the air. Arn blocked half of them with his shield, Valesse with a Ward. He gathered the Thu’um once again, and his form flickered through the Sonaak’s ranks. Four masks shattered almost instantaneously. The Priests chuckled, then raised their staves and brought them down as one.

                Tendrils of lightning snaked across the floor, sending Arn careening off his feet. The Shock magic curled upwards, forming a cage. His hand brushed against it and it sent a painful jolt up his arm. The smell of singed hair tickled his nose.

                Valesse grabbed two Dragon Priests by the heads, allowing the spells cast her way to fall on her fortified skin. Her palms glowed red-hot, and the Priests clawed at their faces as their masks began to melt. She twirled the molten substance between her fingers and hurled it at the Priests maintaining the cage. They started and their concentration broke, allowing Arn to slip free from the weakened bars. He repaid her by slicing the head off one of the Sonaak’s staves.

                Their gaunt opponents paused, taken aback by their ferocity. Arn took the opportunity to charge at a lone Priest, trapping one of its arms and pelting its mask with slashes. The Priest stumbled, off-balance, and Arn gouged the blade into the side of its face. The mask cracked and the dry body beneath it began to desiccate.

                Their initial rush of strength was wearing off, but they managed to slay two more. Arn’s shield granted them brief moments of reprieve, and the spells that did get through dissipated on Valesse’s own Wards.

                The battle continued into the dead of the night.

                Arn bent time twice more, succeeding each time in striking down three Priests, but they soon learned to keep him at a distance with cloaks of swirling energy, and to duck their masks into their chests and shoulders whenever his body blurred at the edges. A fireball sailed from a staff and he blocked it with his shield. There was dull  _clang_  as it came loose of the grip, the temper of the steel destroyed by the heat.

                Valesse hurled every spell in her arsenal at the writhing mass of assailants, not even bothering to spend Magicka on Wards. She could feel her reserves thinning, and each spell that her mage armour absorbed struck closer and closer to home.

                Still they continued grimly.

                Arn rolled and ducked and parried and slashed, his Voice spent, his arm soon to follow. He cut one Priest along the torso and stabbed another in the shoulder, but their only response was a rasping guffaw.

                A spike of ice shot across the fray, headed straight for Valesse. She lifted her hand to cast a Ward, but the Magicka would not come. The spike splintered on one of her ribs, drawing blood.

                Four hours had passed, and still over sixty remained. The Sonaak must have sensed their exhaustion. They were toying with them, sending two or three at a time.

                Her eyes met Arngrimur’s, and she saw her despair mirrored in his eyes.

                She clenched her fist as hard as she could and limped over to him. The gravelly laughter rang out again. The Priests were just gloating now.

                ‘We’re not running,’ he said, barely able to stay upright. ‘We can’t run. They’ll… find our son and…’

                ‘I know, Arn,’ she said softly. ‘I wasn’t about to suggest that.’

                Arn looked at her expectantly, too tired to speak.

                ‘I have… one last trick up my sleeve.’ Her voice quavered. ‘A spell that even Master Neloth deemed too dangerous. I’m the only other person who knows it.’

                ‘Enough… Magicka?’

                ‘This spell requires none.’ She said, eyes downcast.

                ‘…how?’

                ‘A soul contains massive energy, Valesse remembered the old Enchanting lessons in Tel Mithryn. ‘We dubbed the technique Aena S’ara... the Soul Release. It unleashes that energy. We experimented on animals before a rabbit soul almost collapsed the tower. Sentient souls are tens of thousands of times more powerful.’

                Arn’s breathing steadied. ‘And the cost?’ He asked, strangely calm.

                ‘The energy released destroys everything indiscriminantly. Even if I manage to weather it... the body cannot survive without the soul.’ She said, flatly at first, but a shiver crept into her voice at the end.

                Arn said nothing, and held her tightly in his arms. Tears began to well in her eyes.

                ‘If it’ll take them with us and keep the boy safe… It’s a price I’ll gladly pay.’

                ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she blinked rapidly to clear her vision. ‘Only one of us needs to cast the Aena S’ara. You should run and–’

                White mist, from the corner of her eye. The Priests had gotten bored. They fired off another volley of ice, twice as thick and three times as long as the spikes they’d been throwing before.

                Arn sidestepped lightly and pushed her behind him, his thick arms spread wide.

                A few drops of blood splashed onto her face. The transparent spears had torn clean through Arn’s armour and were protruding from his back and shoulders. One ran through his thigh, another his elbow.

                Her heart stopped.

                ‘Damned... cheap armour. This… is what I get, heh,’ Arn coughed weakly. ‘Heh heh heh… for spending all my gold on mead…’

                He fell backwards into her lap, red trailing from his lips.

                ‘ARNGRIMUR!’ Valesse screamed. A hidden burst of Magicka leapt to her fingers, and she expelled all of it at once. A blizzard came to life around them, blocking them off from the Priests for just a moment.

                ‘Valesse…’ Arn murmured. ‘Take… my soul… as well. It’s… always belonged to...’

                ‘You complete fool of a Nord!’ She cried, her voice thick. ‘Stay still, I- I can heal this somehow!’

                ‘Shush now…’ The corner of his mouth twitched, and his voice fell even fainter. ‘What… difference would it make? Cast… the damned spell…’

                Valesse shook her head frantically. Somehow, Arn managed to raise the hand that hadn’t been crippled, and he brushed a few errant strands of black hair lightly from her cheek.

                ‘Don’t… worry,’ he managed a smile. ‘I’ll… come find you… on the other side.’

                She felt something break inside her, and began weeping in earnest.

                ‘No, you won’t,’ she sniffled. ‘My soul’s essence will be used up entirely. I’ll never – I’ll never reach Aetherius.’

                ‘I… see…’ Arn smiled again. ‘All… the more reason… to use mine… as well. Be it Oblivion… or Sovngarde… it will be… terribly boring… without you.’

                Valesse buried her face in his chest and sobbed.

                ‘Say… I can’t believe… I never asked,’ he rasped. ‘What’s… our little boy’s… name?’

                ‘Harrow,’ she said hoarsely. ‘His name is Harrow.’

                ‘Dunmer… name…?’

                ‘To pass- to pass through strife and peril unscathed.’ Her lips quivered. ‘I- I thought that… given the times…’

                Arn tried to laugh, but ended up coughing some more instead. ‘Mother’s… insight,’ he choked. ‘It’s… a good name.’

                A fresh flow streamed down her cheeks when she saw that tears had begun to trickle from Arn’s eyes as well.

                ‘I… wanted so much more time… with him… so much more…’ he whispered. ‘To see you… teach him his letters. Watch him take… his first steps. Give him… his first sword. Sit next to him… when he pines for lost love… Counsel him… in the dangers of drink – ‘

                Despite herself, Valesse managed a snort.

                ‘And there’s… that haughty grin… that I love.’ Arn closed his eyes briefly, then said in stronger tones, ‘Do not delay. Your snowstorm… won’t last forever.’ As if on cue, a skeletal hand tore through the blizzard’s winds, groping inside.

                Valesse nodded, stilling herself. She spread her fingers out and pressed her left hand between her ribs, and her right hand over Arn’s chest.  _Reach beyond the mundane, and beyond the arcane_. Her fingertips glowed as she made contact with their souls. They both shuddered at the sensation.

                ‘Wait…’ Arn raised his head. ‘One moment…’

                He drew in a little breath and let out three final Words.

                ‘ _Zul Mey Gut_.’

                ‘A message… for a friend,’ he explained, and she understood. ‘Might take a while… to arrive.’

                The blizzard’s speed began to drop, and Valesse knew that time was short. ‘Ready?’ She asked gently.

                Arngrimur looked up at her, and his blue eyes met her green.

                ‘Let us be off,’ he said lightly.

                The blizzard vanished. The Dragon Priests swarmed inside and stared, surprised, at the pair kneeling there, supporting each other, paying them no heed at all.

                The two figures embraced for one last time, and vanished in a brilliant surge of white light.

* * *

                In the halls of the Tsukikage hospice, Jorra was keeping the infant company, rocking his cradle back and forth.

                ‘I don’t know how you manage not to vomit,’ he remarked. ‘This looks supremely unpleasant from the outside.’

                He looked inside to find the baby fast asleep.

                ‘Humph. Of course he is – ‘

                 _Jorra_.

                ‘Arngrimur? What – where are you?’ The shinobi looked around wildly, searching for the source of the disembodied voice.

                 _Jorra. I’m afraid I’m going to have to collect on your debt one last time._

                ‘What are you saying all of a sudden?’ Jorra asked, confused. ‘More importantly, how did you-’

                 _Promise me you’ll take care of Harrow._

                There was a loud crack in the distance. The earth shook and Harrow fidgeted in his sleep. Jorra sprang up, whiskers twitching, senses sharpening to a razor’s edge.

                 _Promise me you’ll keep my son safe._

                Jorra dashed outside along with most of the Shadeclaws. The sound had come distinctly from the north. He squinted in that direction and saw a column of smoke rising high into the air.

                 _It’s been an honour, old friend. Farewell. Look after Harrow._

_Promise me._

Understanding came to him with an ocean of grief, black and choking, flooding his lungs.

                ‘I promise,’ Jorra whispered as the Voice faded.


	6. Chapter 6

 

                One of the many Akaviri traits that the Shadeclaws had preserved over the centuries was their customary politeness and courtesy, on which they placed even greater emphasis than the High Elves of the Summerset Isles. This almost obsessive fixation was the butt of numerous jokes within the Empire’s inner circle. ‘A Shadeclaw could kill you in half a second, then spend ten minutes apologising to your corpse.’ ‘How did the Shadeclaws end the Stormhold Revolts? They asked nicely, and everyone dropped dead.’ And so on and so forth.

                The men making such jokes would be quite surprised to see how direct and to the point a Shadeclaw meeting was.

                ‘The elf boy cannot stay,’ Bengakhi said shortly.

                ‘In all honesty he has more Nordic features than usual – ‘

                ‘Beside the point,’ the advisor snapped. ‘The boy is not of Po’ Tun descent. To even think of making him a Shadeclaw… it is unheard of.’

                ‘Are you so mired in tradition, Bengakhi-dro?’ Jorra said, growing irritated. ‘Harrow has already stayed here for two years. He has begun to take lessons and shows all signs of being a promising new student. Every time the Council convenes, you summon me and ask me of his progress, then proceed to dismiss all that you hear and call for his expulsion. Is Tsukikage such a small place that we cannot tolerate the presence of a single child?’

                ‘Tsukikage is a village of shinobi,’ Benghaki’s voice rose as his own temper flared. ‘All who reside within are trained as shinobi, are expected to execute missions as shinobi, and remain shinobi even beyond their deaths. I am not confident in the boy’s ability to withstand our mutations. Rendanshu was designed for the Po’ Tun physiology. Also, consider how different he appears to the others. Children can be cruel. How well would he be able to fit in with his peers? And what uses would we have for an unenhanced Shadeclaw with no claws who is incapable of working in a cell or a team?’

                ‘The same we could get of a Shadeclaw who does not kill, or one maimed in battle,’ Jorra said quietly. ‘Surprisingly many. And that’s assuming that Harrow never rises above your meagre expectations.’

                Grandmaster Takarro sighed and his claws clicked on his desk. ‘For the fourth time – you are both right. Bengakhi, your concerns are not unfounded. But as Jorra has said on numerous occasions, it would be completely heinous to leave a young child, incapable of fending for himself, to starve or freeze on his own, let alone Arngrimur-do’s son.’

                ‘If he becomes a liability – ‘

                ‘Enough,’ Takarro’s hand scythed through the air with a soft  _hiss_ , sending a sharp wind whirling around the Council Chamber. The lanterns placed around the room flickered, and Bengakhi subsided. ‘Harrow stays. I will brook no further debate on this matter.’

                ‘Thank you, Grandmaster,’ Jorra said, relieved.

                The white Po’ Tun paused, then nodded with the barest hint of a smile. ‘On to the kits of Year 182 as a whole, then. Dejira-ko, if you will?’

                A Shadeclaw with a red sash over her tunic rose from her knee.

                ‘Grandmaster, Advisor Bengakhi, members of the Council, Master Jorra,’ she said, bowing to each person in the chamber. ‘It is my great pleasure to report that the entire class is growing up healthy and well. They have started learning their letters, and most are beginning to learn how to converse with others. There are… some exceptions, however.

                ‘Two boys and one girl are advancing quicker than the rest, and have proven themselves already capable of talking in complete sentences. They are detailed in a footnote on my report.’

                Takarro glanced over the parchment, and his eyebrows rose. ‘I see Harrow is among the three.’

                ‘Indeed. Were his mother not an elven mage of such prodigious talent, I would even call his growth unnatural. He possesses a vocabulary of more than two hundred words, and is showing interest in complex reading material.’

                Bengakhi rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Jorra tried to keep a proud smirk from stretching across his face.

                ‘As for the kits with unsatisfactory performances so far…’ Dejira stopped, looking slightly uncomfortable.

                ‘It’s Ambarro, isn’t it?’ Takarro guessed. ‘Don’t worry, Dejira-ko. The Grandmaster is supposed to remain impartial, after all.’

                ‘With all due respect, then, Takarro-ri,’ the caretaker continued reluctantly. ‘Ambarro is the oldest of the class, nearing three years old now, and he has yet to start speaking at all. We must consider that he might be impaired in some way…’

                She trailed off as Jorra winced.

                The Grandmaster picked at the side of his mane, and the Council Chamber lapsed into an awkward silence.

                ‘On to more important matters,’ Bengakhi said, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere. And so the meeting continued. Takarro never uttered another word throughout the numerous reports, assessments and projections.

                ‘I hope Takarro-ri isn’t angry with me,’ Dejira said in a subdued voice as the Council adjourned and Shadeclaws spilled out into the hallways.

                ‘No offense, Dejira-ko,’ Jorra said. ‘But calling the Grandmaster’s grandson a simpleton might not have been a good idea.’

                ‘You have a rather low opinion of my temperament, Jorra,’ Takarro said, materialising behind them without even a whisper of fabric. Jorra’s grin vanished and reappeared on the Grandmaster’s face. ‘Many apologies for interrupting your chat, Dejira-ko, but could I borrow Jorra for a moment? I promise to return him mostly intact.’

                Dejira bowed and walked off.

                ‘Now then, Jorra,’ Takarro said, still in jovial tones. Jorra felt his blue-grey fur rustle in apprehension nonetheless. ‘Join me for a meal as we talk about my potentially challenged grandson.

* * *

                 Takarro set his chopsticks down, satisfied. ‘I never fail to be impressed with what our chefs can do with salmon,’ he said, suppressing a belch.

                Jorra blinked. ‘But they haven’t even cooked it.’

                ‘Exactly! This minimalist approach brings out the most natural flavours of – ‘

                ‘You wanted to talk about Ambarro, Grandmaster?’ Jorra interrupted.

                ‘Ah, yes,’ Takarro reached for a glass of soy milk. ‘I have a favour to ask of you. You were in the same year as my daughter, and I know you mourned her passing as much as I did.’

                Jorra’s face fell, and he saw sadness flit across the elder Po’ Tun’s eyes as well.

                ‘Kodi and Verra were two of the finest shinobi to ever grace the halls of Tsukikage. They will be remembered as heroes, Takarro-ri.’

                The Grandmaster drew a deep breath and drained his glass. ‘I should be wizened enough by now to know that the pain never goes away… but I didn’t drag you out to the eatery to stir up old sorrows. It’s their son that concerns me.’

                ‘You need not even ask, Grandmaster,’ Jorra said, standing. ‘Of course I will keep an eye on Ambarro. I know your duties must take up most of your time.’

                Takarro’s shoulders slackened. ‘You’re a good man, Jorra. Thank you. This isn’t anything as binding as an order from the Council, so please just think of it as a favour for an old cat.’ He chuckled. ‘With the amount of attention that our caretakers and teachers devote to our younglings, however, I doubt you’ll have to do too much. So don’t think you’re getting out of missions just yet.’

                Jorra smiled lightly, then sat down and finished his dish. When he looked up from the plate, the Grandmaster had disappeared.

                ‘Always so theatrical,’ he muttered, wiping his mouth. ‘At any rate, I’d better check on my new charges.’

                The eatery led out to a large terrace that overlooked the Village. The sight never failed to take his breath away. Snow-capped mountains stretched out below, and frozen runoff glistened on Tsukikage’s roofs of wood and stone, golden sunlight refracting off the crystalline ice.

                A group of adolescent shinobi-in-training dashed across the rooftops in their routine morning training session, their instructor following close behind, scolding his students every time their feet skidded on the slippery surface.  _They get faster every year_ , Jorra marvelled, leaping from the balcony himself. He landed eighty feet below without a sound, brushed a few errant flecks of snow from his leg, and headed west.

                He heard them before he saw them, youthful shouts and laughs ringing out from the far side of the nursery. Jorra circled around the building and into the yard, where a dozen children were lining up behind a series of balancing beams. They were watching a small boy with rapt attention as he walked slowly on the polished wood, frowning with concentration, his arms stretched out to either side. He inched forward until he reached the end of the beam, then jumped off, landing steadily with his knees slightly bent.

                ‘Very good, Harrow-ma.’ Dejira was the only one who clapped – the other children stared at the unfurred youngster as if they weren’t sure what to make of him.

                Harrow did not seem to enjoy his praise. Instead, his lips tightened and he said sullenly, ‘I can’t do it like you, Dejira.’

                ‘Dejira- _ko_ ,’ the caretaker corrected. ‘And don’t fret, dear, another three winters and you’ll be somersaulting across the bars – oh, Ambarro-ma, did you want to go too?’

                A kit with a black pelt had run up to the front and was struggling to place his feet on the balance beam. Even from the back Jorra could see him pouting.

                ‘All right, all right, but please remember to wait in line next time, hmm?’

                Ambarro clambered on top of the wood, his legs already quivering. He took three, four tentative steps. Then he tottered and fell, bruising his elbow.

                The gathered children began to point and laugh. As Dejira shushed them and hurried towards the spot, Ambarro reached up and pulled himself back onto the beam.

                He took a few more determined steps, then slid off the bar, landing on his rear. Laughter rang out again, even louder this time. Ambarro bared his teeth and climbed back up, panting heavily, only to topple over three feet later.

                Dejira stopped, looking conflicted. Jorra could guess how she felt. _Stop the boy from hurting himself some more, or let him continue to hone his skills, lacking as they may be?_

                In the end, the caretaker crossed her arms and stood back as Ambarro got back up, fell, got back up again, then fell again. After fifteen minutes of it he made it to the end of the balance beam, a huge grin on his face. He stuck his tongue out at Harrow as he went back to the end of the line, drawing a smattering of giggles. The young elf glared back at him with narrowed silver eyes.

                 _Well, he certainly has spirit,_ Jorra thought to himself.  _And it seems like Bengakhi was right about Harrow not fitting in._

                A few more youngsters went on the beam, and the class ended.

                ‘Well done, everybody,’ Dejira called. ‘Especially Harrow-ma and Diia-ma. You may play around the yard for a while before our next lesson begins.’

                The children dispersed, forming groups of threes or fours, chattering away in short, juvenile sentences. Ambarro bobbed around them, making funny faces and wet noises. Harrow sat off to the side, doodling in the snow with his fingers.

                Jorra crouched above the boy, studying him. His features had become slightly more refined. The tips of his ears had grown a little more, and his eyes were beginning to slant. Not quite Nord, but not quite Altmer either.

                Harrow tilted his head and looked at Jorra inquisitively. After a while, the Shadeclaw stood, smiling down at him.

                ‘Who are you?’ He asked curiously.

                ‘You first, little man. It’s only polite, after all.’

                ‘I’m Harrow.’

                ‘Pleasure to meet you, Harrow. My name is Jorra.’

                ‘Hello, Jorra.’

                ‘Forgive Harrow-ma’s disuse of honorifics, Jorra-jo,’ Dejira said as she passed. ‘He’s stubbornly insistent on leaving them out of his sentences.’

                ‘It’s quite all right,’ Jorra waved it off. ‘It’s just pretty words, and he has plenty of time to learn.’

                ‘You don’t play with the others?’ He asked as Dejira started patrolling the other end of the yard.

                ‘They don’t want me to.’ The boy said nonchalantly, wiping his hand on his tunic.

                ‘How do you know?’

                ‘They look at me funny.’

                ‘That's not very nice. Why would they?’

                ‘I look different.’

                Taken aback by his insight, Jorra fell silent as he tried and failed to think of more things to talk about.

                ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he managed, slightly disconcerted. ‘You’re a clever young man, aren’t you?’

                ‘Dejira says that too.’

                ‘I’m sure she does,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll see you around, Harrow.’ There was a fresh outburst of laughter. Jorra looked around to find Ambarro’s legs flailing in the air. He’d buried himself headfirst into the snow.

                 _Interesting kits, both of them._  And then a more solemn thought.

                 _I wish their parents were here to see them._

* * *

                 Following that particularly melancholy train of thought, he decided to follow up on Ambarro and Harrow’s inheritance, hopefully before anything was incinerated or sold off.

                The belongings of the deceased were kept in a bamboo hut right next to the morgue. He ducked under the low entranceway, slit-like pupils expanding rapidly in the dim surroundings.

                ‘May I help you?’ The stockkeeper asked, dropping his stylus and looking up from his calligraphy. Jorra squinted and saw that he was in the midst of writing the Akaviri glyph for ‘death’, which he found rather morbid.

                ‘I’d like to check the possessions of the shinobi Kodi and Verra, as well as the outsiders Arngrimur and Valesse, and take them for safekeeping until I deem it time to pass them on to their sons.’

                ‘Ah. You must be Jorra-jo. One moment.’ The stockkeeper bowed and rummaged around the back of the hut. He returned to the counter with three oak boxes – one large, one small, one long and thin.

                He opened the long and thin box first. ‘Recovered from Archon, Black Marsh, along with Kodi-dar’s remains – his rokushakubo, of enchanted verawood. Already cleaned and polished.’

                Jorra picked up the six-foot-long weapon reverently, admiring the play of light across the dark auburn surface. He stepped back and spun the staff around him in a basic kata. ‘It’s of very fine make,’ he remarked, resting one end of the bo on his left shoulder in the finishing form. ‘Fit for the Grandmaster himself.’

                ‘Indeed.’ The stockkeeper sniffed as he straightened his whiskers, which had been blown out of shape by Jorra’s strikes. ‘I find the weight too centred for my liking, however. If you please, Jorra-jo.’

                He put the wooden staff back in the thin box, then proceeded to open the large one.

                ‘Also recovered from Archon, numerous tools employed by Verra-daro. A full set of hira shuriken, in pristine condition. Half a dozen orichalcum kunai, three slightly chipped. A pair of kama, missing their chains and shattered into pieces. An assortment of pellets, designed to release smoke or poison fumes, and also to detonate explosives of varying intensity. It seems that Ambarro-ma is already well on his way to building a formidable arsenal.’

                Jorra let his gaze wander over the collection of gadgets, his throat tightening as he lingered on the broken kama. He nodded, and the lid snapped shut.

                ‘As for Harrow-ma…’ the stockkeeper’s eyes were downcast. Jorra’s heart sank as he began to open the smallest box.

                ‘Please understand, Jorra-jo. We know little of Valesse-ko and Arngrimur-do’s exploits, or what kind of valuables they would have left across Tamriel. We have nothing of the father to keep for young Harrow, and as for his mother…’

                A pair of dark olive gloves nestled in the box, tucked neatly besides each other. A brief film of tears blurred his vision, and as he blinked it away, he noticed that the material was neither leather nor fabric.

                ‘Dreamcloth. Styled after the uniform of an Aldmeri Dominion agent. Fashioned by a master enchanter or enchantress, likely Valesse-ko herself.’ The stockkeeper unfolded the gloves, his voice soft. ‘Meticulously woven with threads of Magicka, such that they can stitch themselves back together when torn. You’ll find no raiment more exquisite across all of Nirn.’

                Jorra ran a finger across the silken cloth, a bitter taste in his mouth. Without another word, he swept up all three chests and carried them out of the hut, a chill breeze blowing in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

 

               The great moonstone gates of Tsukikage never creaked. Spells woven into the hinges kept them smooth and ready to swing open in a second.

               The gates had barely parted before Jorra flitted through, impatient. He nodded briefly to Kenshiki and Gingaki, not breaking his stride. The wind ruffled his fur as he sped into the village.

               ‘Jorra-jo, welcome back,’ Kenshiki called.

               ‘My, he’s in a hurry,’ his companion remarked dryly. ‘Dying for a proper meal after a year away from home, I’d wager.’

               ‘The eatery is the other way. Off to check on his plant, more likely. It should be budding soon.’

               Jorra slowed as he approached the nursery and he kicked himself. Harrow and Ambarro were no longer younglings under Dejira’s care. The kits of Year 182 were being trained seriously now.  _How time flies_. Jorra shook his head, turning south.

               A drop melted off an icicle and landed on his whiskers as he paused outside the paper doors of the dojo, wondering how much the two had grown. They were six now, Ambarro almost seven. In another five years they would have to take on their first official duties.

               Jorra brushed the icy water off his cheek and went inside. The distinctive thumps and swishes of martial arts practice reached him then, and he winced in sympathy as he heard a familiar voice bark out instructions. Master Mokko was one of the finest hand-to-hand combatants in the village, and no one was better suited to train new generations of shinobi in close quarters combat. He was also an unforgiving taskmaster who believed that the only thing better than beating your lessons into your students was letting your students beat them into each other.

               ‘Rinka, get your nose seen to. Try not to bleed so much on my floor. Very impressive, Diia. Next – Shiyo and Io. Take your places… and begin!’

               He opened the sliding screen to the training hall, just in time to see a flurry of fists, kicks and elbow strikes erupt in the middle of a circle of young Po’ Tun in white tunics. A shinobi with steel-grey fur stood over them.  _His face is as stern as ever_. Mokko nodded at Jorra without smiling, then motioned for him to sit in the corner.

               A crème-furred kit made the mistake of looking at him, and a split second later a fist crashed into his jaw. His head rocked backwards as he flailed, trying to recover his balance, and his black-spotted opponent followed his uppercut with an elbow to the chest. There was a crack, and the kit tumbled to the floor, clutching at his ribcage.

               ‘Never allow yourself to be distracted, Shiyo. A mistake like that could mean your death in battle,’ Mokko admonished as the spotted youngling helped his partner to his feet. ‘Take him to the infirmary. And well-fought, Io, though your form leaves much to be desired.’

               Io bowed, slinging Shiyo’s arm over his shoulder, who nodded as best he could with a broken rib. They limped out of the dojo, Io patting Shiyo lightly on the back and murmuring words of encouragement.

                _Well, I see they’re getting along well,_  Jorra thought.  _I wonder if those other two are doing any better…_

               Then he noted Ambarro’s flinty glare and sighed to himself.

               Mokko seemed to read his mind. ‘Next – Harrow and Ambarro.’

               Ambarro leapt to his feet, grinning and cracking his knuckles. He pointed at Harrow and then drew a claw across his throat. ‘I practiced for three straight days after our last match. You won’t beat me this time.’

                Harrow stood slowly, his eyes cold, a hint of a sneer around his lips. ‘If you say so, dunce.’

                Jorra shook his head. The boys were practically nothing like their parents. Kodi and Verra had both been quiet and studious. Their son was the exact opposite, a loud and boastful prankster.  _Much like Arngrimur_ , he mused. Harrow had inherited his mother's intelligence, at least, but little else other than her hair.  _Certainly not her genial nature._

                He turned his attention back to the centre of the group. Ambarro was bouncing on the balls of his feet, the very picture of confidence. Harrow stood a hop from him, straightening the belt on his tunic. They stared at each other until Mokko snapped, ‘Boys! Manners!’

                Harrow bowed, tilting his head mockingly. Ambarro crossed his arms, his lips drawn tight.

                ‘Begin.’

                Ambarro started his leap even before the last syllable dropped, his foot whipping through the air as he brought it in a semicircle over his head.

                Jorra nodded appreciatively.  _He’s grown faster_.

                Harrow sidestepped almost lazily, and the crescent kick brushed past his sleeve. Ambarro spun as he landed, his leg an arcing hook. Harrow simply leant backwards, and the blow tousled his hair.

                Ambarro didn’t let his momentum go to waste, however. Completing his spin, he lashed out with his fists, aiming for the sternum and the collarbone.

                Harrow’s eyes narrowed. He contorted his body forwards, his left arm outstretched. Ambarro’s first punch met empty air and a snag on Harrow’s tunic. His second connected with Harrow’s arm at an angle. Shifting, Harrow grabbed Ambarro’s wrist, twisting it.

                Ambarro whirled sideways along with his hand, pulling Harrow into a headbutt. Harrow used his free hand to push his head back, exposing his throat.

                As Harrow formed a spear with four fingers, Ambarro ducked his head into his chest and tried to knee him in the stomach. The spearhand became an open palm as Harrow intercepted the attack. Releasing Ambarro’s wrist, he followed his block with a knuckle strike to the crook of his arm. Ambarro flinched as his right arm went numb.

                Harrow weaved between three more clumsy blows and finished his open-palm strike on Ambarro’s sternum, lifting the black Po’ Tun into the air and sending him skidding to Mokko’s feet.

                ‘Harrow wins as usua-’

                ‘Not just yet!’ Ambarro leapt to his feet straight into an uppercut, his eyes fixed on Harrow’s chin.

                Jorra shook his head again. The kit was telegraphing more and more as he lost control of his temper. Harrow skipped backwards to avoid the uppercut, dodged a sidekick, somersaulted over a vicious hook and chopped him once in the side of the neck. Ambarro stiffened and collapsed.

                Mokko had just opened his mouth to speak when Ambarro pushed himself upright, swaying slightly.

                ‘We’re… not done here…’ He panted as he sprinted towards Harrow.

                The black-haired child snorted in derision. Then he swept out his leg, tripping him, and lifted it over his abdomen. Ambarro rolled to the side at the last moment, and Harrow’s foot thudded into the wooden floor. He tried a chop of his own to the knee, but Harrow simply drew his leg upwards and the blow passed under him. Ambarro’s breath whooshed out as Harrow fell on him with an elbow, and he curled into a foetal position, his head resting against the cold wood.

                There was a brief moment of silence, then Master Mokko spoke.

                ‘And to Harrow goes the victor –’

                He stopped in astonishment. Ambarro had clambered to his feet. Even from the other end of the dojo Jorra could see him shaking.

                ‘Not… if… I… have… anything… to say about it.’ His voice was ragged. He staggered forward, assuming a rough combat stance. Then he coughed and dropped to one knee.

                Harrow rolled his eyes, and that’s when Ambarro struck.

                His fist landed just above Harrow’s waist. The elf grunted, and another fist dug into his cheek.

                 _He wasn’t half as hurt as he looked_ , Jorra realised.  _Or as stupid_.

                Anger flashed in Harrow’s sharp features for the first time. He ducked under a third blow, jabbed Ambarro in his deadened right arm, formed a fist himself and backhanded him across the temple. Then he grabbed Ambarro by the back of the head and kneed him thrice in the face.

                Harrow released his grip on his last strike, and Ambarro cartwheeled a hundred and eighty degrees backwards. He landed headfirst and crumpled into a heap, unconscious.

                Mokko knew serious injuries when he saw it. Frowning, he bent over the immobile kit and pressed a hand against his forehead, Regeneration magic flowing from his fingertips. Torn skin and fractured bones knitted together, and Ambarro’s body relaxed.

                ‘That was quite excessive, Harrow,’ Mokko’s voice was dispassionate. ‘Did you mean to kill Ambarro?’

                ‘Cheh.’

                The martial arts master studied his only unfurred student for a while, his face expressionless. Then Ambarro stirred and rose again.

                ‘Alright,’ he slurred. ‘Let’s go –’

                ‘Sit down,’ Mokko said wearily. ‘The match is over.’

                ‘But –’

                ‘ _Sit_.’

                ‘Yes master.’ Subdued, Ambarro sat, refusing to meet Harrow’s eyes.

                ‘I think that’s enough for the day. Practice your kata and pay extra attention to footwork. Train with your dummy if you have free time. Dismissed.’

                The shinobi-in-training stood as one and bowed, then exited the dojo one by one. Harrow glanced at Jorra for a moment, then looked away just as quickly in distaste as Ambarro ran towards him, shouting, ‘Uncle Jorra, welcome back!’

                Chuckling, Jorra rubbed Ambarro’s head affectionately. ‘It’s good to be back, my little friend. You’re a few inches taller than I remember. Quite a bit faster, too.’

                ‘I run three laps around the village every morning,’ the kit said proudly. ‘And I trained so hard I broke six of my dummies. I’ll be able to pound that Harrow into the dirt next time.’

                ‘Good luck with that,’ Jorra said, scratching his head awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, Ambarro, but would you mind letting me and Mokko-do talk in private?’

                Ambarro pouted, but did as he asked.

                ‘How you manage to juggle the two of them I’ll never know.’ Master Mokko massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘Oil and water doesn’t begin to describe their relationship.’

                ‘They have more in common than you might think.’

                ‘Most rivals do. On the surface, however, they might as well be sun and moon.’

                ‘Even the sun and moons are more alike than rhetoric would imply… but I’m not here to debate philosophy. I see Harrow’s training proceeds well.’

                ‘The boy learns extremely quickly when he puts his mind to it. He spends most of his time reading instead of training, but yet still manages to execute moves almost instinctively. Quite a natural, our young elf.’

                Jorra raised an eyebrow. Mokko did not often gave praise so freely.

                ‘And Ambarro?’ He allowed a slight chill to creep into his voice. ‘Do you still find him as slow on the uptake now that you’re actually teaching him?’

                ‘Still angry about my remarks, I see. That was quite a while ago, Jorra-jo.’

                ‘No child is completely useless or without some form of talent,’ Jorra said, looking hard at Mokko. ‘Let alone one who improved as quickly as Ambarro.’

                ‘I won’t deny it; the boy has potential… but his obsession with Harrow clouds his focus. He has no control over his emotions at all, and often acts without forethought. A brash Shadeclaw is a dead one.’

                ‘He’s only six,’ Jorra said defensively. ‘He has plenty of time to mature.’

                ‘I would not bet on it,’ the instructor muttered. ‘I have Year 180 coming for a session in a quarter-hour. If you’ll excuse me, I must meditate.’

                ‘A pleasure as always, Mokko-do.’ Jorra bowed and left.

* * *

                 The Jade Iris was a plant only found in a single part of Hammerfell, so named for its distinctive green hue. It was a rare flower, and difficult to find, as it grew in patches of long grass and even among the leaves of tall trees. The Iris was one of the plants in Tamriel most infused with magic. It fed only on Magicka, and required a staggering amount of it to grow.

                The Iris had no signature scent and did not draw insects, and Jorra had only managed to find it with a spell that he devised himself… which also seemed to attract lightning bolts, for some reason. He smiled ruefully, and smelled the healer’s bed, the roast boar, and the Belkarth dungeons as if it were yesterday.

                Jorra hadn’t known exactly how much magic it needed the first time he tried planting the Jade Iris, and after a year of malnourishment, the flower had wilted. Luckily, it had seeded before it died, and he had taken no chances this time.

                A glowing still fed a steady drip of potion into the soil around the seed. The brew was Jorra’s own. He originally invented it to grow special varieties of Nirnroot, but realised that it worked just as well for the Iris.

                Squinting, he could see that a green shoot had begun pushing its way out of the earth. Jorra smiled, pleased. It had taken the seed almost a decade, but it was finally budding.

                There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he called. He could guess who it was.

                Harrow raised a hand to shield his eyes as he stepped into the indoor garden. The glass ceiling was enchanted, amplifying the sunrays that shone through.

                ‘I made you some tea, Jorra,’ he said quietly, setting down a platter and a steaming cup on a nearby table. ‘I hope you like it.’

                Jorra blinked. He never failed to be surprised by how polite Harrow could be, a sharp contrast to how he treated Ambarro.

                ‘Why, thank you.’ He strode over to the child and took a sip. The tea was rich and fruity, though a little too bitter for his liking.

                ‘You promised to tell me more of my father and mother when you returned,’ Harrow said, looking slightly annoyed. ‘You did not tell me, however, that you’d be gone for a year.’

                Jorra grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that. But I’m here now… and where were we last time?’

                ‘How my father was left orphaned after his house burned down. He refused to beg and made his living selling sundry goods.’

                 _A six-year-old using the word ‘sundry’._

                ‘Ah, yes. By the time he was thirteen, your father had been all across Skyrim peddling his wares, and he’d developed quite a glib tongue and a taste for adventure. He had almost no sense in his head, however, and for some reason one day he decided to go tomb raiding.

                ‘He ran almost instantly into a roving group of bandits, who beat him half to death and tried to sell him as a slave. I say “tried” because they came across an old man who killed them all with a single word.’

                ‘And this old man taught him the ways of the Thu’um?’

                ‘That he did. The old man’s name was Raeg Nar’ook, a wandering hermit. Apparently he was once a Greybeard, but he disagreed with their pacifist code and developed his own Way of the Voice.’

                Jorra didn’t need to ask if Harrow understood. He’d seen the stacks of books in the boy’s quarters.

                ‘Raeg had left the Greybeards and began a long crusade of righting perceived wrongs and standing up for the smallfolk, much like a  _xia_  out of Akaviri legend. The eccentric old Tongue took a liking to the bloodied and bruised Arngrimur, and accepted the awed young man’s request to become his apprentice.

                ‘For almost twenty years, your father learned all he could of the art of the Thu’um as he and his master travelled all across Tamriel. Raeg also taught him his letters, swordsmanship, and even a little of military strategy in the form of chess and history. Then the Great War broke out, and Arngrimur decided to join the war effort. That was the last he ever saw of Raeg Nar’ook.’

                ‘What became of the old man?’

                ‘He’d taken on another apprentice by then. A young Redguard, dressed all in black. Arngrimur never caught his name. All he remembers is that the child was enormous. At twelve years of age he stood a head higher than your father.

                ‘Arngrimur enlisted in the Imperial Legion, quickly rising through the ranks with his command of the Voice. He met and even befriended a few notable figures in Tamriel’s politics. Ulfric Stormcloak, the current Jarl of Windhelm, for one. He also met me on a mission to Hammerfell… which is a story for another time. Suffice it to say that we met several more times and became the best of friends. He even had the honour of visiting the village.’

                 _I sincerely hope I never have to tell that particular story._  Jorra shuddered inwardly, then continued.

                ‘Your father enjoyed the action at first, but soon grew sick of the mindless violence and slaughter. It was during the War that he met your mother.

                ‘Valesse-ko was thirty years your father’s elder, but with the elves’ great longevity, this did not mean much. Your mother had trained all her life to become a battlemage in the Aldmeri Dominion. She learned her craft first from books, then from a Morrowind Master Wizard. She found, however, that she did not at all enjoy torturing prisoners and setting innocent villages on fire, and deserted after just three months of service.

                ‘Your father came across your mother in the smoking ruins of a temple of Talos, and naturally assumed that she was the one who burned it down. The two duelled with word, sword and spell for three days until they were both too exhausted to even lift a finger. It was then that a squad of Dominion soldiers arrived and carried Valesse-ko off to be executed as a traitor, leaving Arngrimur for dead.

                ‘Wracked with guilt, your father followed them and rescued her. He also spontaneously decided to keep your mother hidden away for the remainder of the war, which did not last very long. Their feelings for each other must have blossomed during this time, and they got married a year after the White-Gold Concordat was signed.

                ‘Your father was honourably discharged from the Legion, and he returned to his old adventuring ways with his new wife. Six years ago, for some obscure reason, creatures called Dragon Priests began attacking him.

                ‘You father decided to take your heavily pregnant mother to the safest place he knew – Tsukikage no Sato. It was here that you were born. Valesse-ko rushed off after your father, who’d gone to confront the Priests, leaving you here… and you know the rest.’

                Harrow was silent for a long while, tapping his chin. Jorra knew that once he left, he would be heading straight for the library for anything related to Dragon Priests. ‘Thank you,’ he said at long last. ‘For the story… and for everything else, Master Jorra.’

                He’d never called him ‘Master’ before. Jorra wasn’t sure he liked it.

                ‘Think nothing of it,’ he waved it off. ‘Very impressive match today, by the way.’

                ‘Thank you,’ Harrow said again, but in drastically different tones. His lip curled disdainfully. ‘But the competition was not exactly a challenge.’

                Jorra sighed. ‘A word of advice, Harrow. Treat Ambarro with some more respect if you want him to do the same.’

                ‘I treat everyone with the respect due their station.’

                 _He’s still a child_ , Jorra reminded himself.  _A little more well-spoken, perhaps, but still a child._

                ‘Let me tell you another story,’ Jorra said softly, draining his now lukewarm tea. ‘Once there was a boy. He was the grandson of the Grandmaster of the Village Under the Shadow of the Moons, one of the greatest shinobi to ever live. His mother and father were heroes who perished in the line of duty, giving their lives for the sake of the village.

                ‘The boy was left with shoes impossible to fill, and expectations so heavy he could barely stand. His accomplishments went unnoticed in the shadow of his forebears. Worst of all, he had little talent, and needed to work twice as hard as anyone else to get the same results. Wanting to stand out, he turned to pranks and crude jokes, often being the loudest among his peers.’

                ‘Ambarro –’ Harrow begun.

                ‘The boy’s name,’ Jorra continued. ‘Was Puriyo, grandson of Furiya-ri, and Second Grandmaster of Tsukikage. He was known for his defence of the village against the warlords of the Jerall Mountains for thirty years on end, and is largely the reason that Tsukikage is still seen as haunted by the warlord’s descendants still residing around us. He built on his grandmother’s legacy, doubling all the enchantments around the mountain and laying the moonstone gates himself, brick by brick. Today he is seen as an exemplar of the Shadeclaws… and like many others, I hold him in the highest regard.’

                To that, Harrow had no answer. Five full minutes passed.

                ‘I will… think on what you’ve said, Jorra,’ he said at last, some of the arrogance draining from his eyes. A flurry of snowflakes swirled into the garden as he slipped out into the late afternoon.

                Jorra turned his attention back to the Jade Iris. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could’ve sworn that the shoot had grown a little more, by just the tiniest of fractions.

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from the Tamriel Vault original


End file.
